


The Ties That Bind Us

by im2old4thisotp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All of the Feelings, Alpha Scott, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banshee Lydia Martin, But so much happy endings, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Dimension-Hopping, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Tether(s), F/M, Flashbacks, Future Fic, It gives me all the feelings, Lydia Martin & Scott McCall Friendship, Married Couple, McCall Pack, McMartinski Friendship, POV Multiple, Past Violence, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott and Lydia and Stiles love each other so much, Stydia, Stydia Flashbacks, Stydia engagement, Supernatural Shenanigans, a little bit of smut, always be inspired by Buffy when you can be, as well as a buffy episode or two, based on actual mythology, canon compliant (until 6b messes it up), married stydia, seriously so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-10-29 10:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im2old4thisotp/pseuds/im2old4thisotp
Summary: 20 years have passed, and the McCall pack has become world-renowned for its strength and power, but also known for their ability to maintain a somewhat normal life in the process.But a threat is about to invade their lives without any warning, threatening to take down the pack from inside, and with it, any chance for happiness...or survival.





	1. A Spirit Awakens

**Author's Note:**

> I am @im2old4thisotp on Twitter and Tumblr. Come talk to me!
> 
> There are many thank yous for this story.
> 
> To Rachel (writergirl8) who continues to inspire me and encourage me.  
> To Sydney (loveroflight24) who is my cheerleader and first reader who told me not to quit when I wanted to.  
> To Sara (shrinkingsara), my best friend who listened to hours of messages of me talking through this story, without whom it would not exist.  
> To Meg (megbonneywriter) for being the first to read multiple chapters and tell me it was good enough to continue.  
> To Jen (goingnocturnal1) who helped me bang out details and hammer through the tenses that love to trip me.  
> To my DOBGC gals (pantsie, suds, frass, lor, prags, and janeycakes) who have made this whole thing worth it, and who I write for.
> 
> I will continually update the tags as this story continues to develop. I hope you all enjoy the ride that I have been on for months, writing this damn thing. :)

***********************

Surely thou art a god, such form as thine must more than mortal be.  
Tell me, thou godlike being, who thou art, and wherefore art thou here?  
Then from her husband’s body forced he out and firmly with his cord  
Bound and detained the spirit, like in size and length to a man’s thumb.  
Forthwith the body, reft of vital being and deprived of breath,  
Lost all its grace and beauty, and became ghastly and motionless.  
            - Savitri and Satyavan

 

***********************

_He stumbles to the ground, hitting the spotless floor with enough force to create noise, but it is eerily silent, the sound he should have made vacuuming into nothing. His vision squints shut, slow to adjust to the brightness that blinds him. He slowly rises to take in the sight around him._

_It is a strange sensation. He feels like he is on solid ground, but he can't determine where the ground actually begins, because everything around him is white. He has no awareness of depth or space or distance. He feels weightless, yet he meets with a surface with some weight, so gravity must exist in some form. He can't determine a source of the blinding light--it seems to exist everywhere, from all sides and angles, so blindingly bright that it is immediately terrifying. He feels it could shine light into every part of him to reveal the blank emptiness that consumes who he is._

_“Hello?” He expects an echo, his voice to fill the void that surrounded him, but his voice barely registers, the tremendous vacuum taking the sound and disintegrating it until it no longer exists. Until he wonders whether he has made any sound at all._

_He is instantly afraid. He has no memory of getting to this place. He has no concept of how long he has been here. He looks down at his body and his eyes widen at what he sees. He thought his feet were touching the ground, but as he looks again, he has no feet. Indeed, he has no legs or arms or body at all. He is a figure of mist and unformed shape, and though he can not identify his features, he still feels like a being. A being that is simultaneously weightless and leaden._

_“Your thirst for chaos has brought you here.”_

_He searches in vain for the origin of the voice. It fills his space from the inside--he wonders if it doesn't come from inside himself entirely._

_“Your endless quest for power. Your appetite for destruction. These are the things that have condemned you.”_

_He tries to answer the voice--to argue or to contradict the words he hears. He feels these impulses rise as quickly as a vapor, but he finds himself unable to speak._

_“You are dead. Your body is torn apart and bleeding on the ground. You can no longer enter it. What remains now is what you are. A vapor; a mist.”_

_Terror fills him as he realizes what the voice is saying, and a memory emerges inside of him: a pack. Claws and fangs and blood and darkness. He had fought; he had lost. And he had arrived here._

_“Your evil deeds condemn you. You have killed.”_

_His mind fights against the words the voice imparts to him, but he can not escape them. As the voice speaks, memories flood the space around him, playing on an endless loop. He can no longer block his vision from them--they invade his sight and fill his soul with torment. Images of claws and death, of soil and fire. Bones broken and limbs mangled. Flashes of death and pain._

_“You have forsaken the spirit of your ancestors.” Faces pass before him in succession, faces he knew but had betrayed._

_“You have stolen. You have abused. You will not pass on.” The images flash before him faster and faster, blending and blurring together until they pulse around him, filling his senses and spaces until he can no longer decipher past or present. It builds within him until it can no longer be held._

_The bloodcurdling scream that rips from his being empties out his soul. It fills the void and echoes in the chambers of the unknown until it is consumed by the vacuum into nothingness._

_“You will not pass on. You will be reborn, but you are cursed. Condemned to roam the earth, endlessly eating but endlessly starving, attempting to feed the parts of your soul that contain no warmth.”_

_“You can’t do this to me.”_

_The empty space fades, and the figure’s vision fades to blackness. He hears the voice respond from a distance, void of emotion. “You did this to yourself.”_

 

 

***********************

 

The drive to the hospital is short, the benefits of being in tiny Beacon Hills again. She had insisted on driving them from Palo Alto because his nervous energy was sure to cause them to break speed records or veer off the road. As it is, his knees are bouncing erratically in the passenger seat, and it is driving Lydia crazy. 

“Stiles. Please. You are going to be _fine_. Dr. Alexander said it won’t even take an hour. I’m not sure why you’re so nervous.”

“Lydia. They are cutting into my most prized body part! All it takes is one little slip and I’m peeing into a colostomy bag for the rest of my life! The guys at the station warned me.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “That’s not how a vasectomy works, and you know it. They just put a needle in to administer local anesthetic and then--”

“Oh, _fuck_ no. There is absolutely no way they are sticking a needle in me down there. They are putting me _out_. Lydia, we talked about this and the doctor agreed.”

Lydia side-eyes him. “Stiles, The doctor agreed because you wouldn’t stop pacing around his office for 15 minutes and he was worried you were going to give yourself an aneurysm. He wants you calm on the table so that he can do his _10-minute procedure_ without you flailing about. It’s the only reason he agreed.”

“It doesn’t matter if this is a 10-minute procedure or a 10-hour procedure. I am not awake for this.” Stiles’ legs stop bouncing, but his hands can not stop fidgeting for a moment.

“I am counting on it being a 10-minute procedure. I only got a substitute for my classes for two days.” Lydia’s schedule as a professor is more flexible, but her research with Maryam Mirzakhani in the mathematics department kept her extremely busy--it was rare that she was able to take time off during the school year.

“Eh, those Stanford fuckwits can handle life without you for two days.”

“They’re graduate students, Stiles. Not fuckwits.”

“Potato, po-tah-to.” Stiles’ knees start their erratic bouncing again when they arrive at the hospital parking lot. Lydia pulls into a space and Stiles reaches into the backseat.

“They’re not going to let you into the operating room with that disgusting pillow, Stiles.”

“I can’t sleep without it! Plus, I’ll be staying at Scott’s house and you know that man doesn’t keep a decent pillow in his house.”

Lydia sighs. It is pointless to argue with him when he is so keyed up. She might have been more annoyed, but it is rare for Stiles to maintain any kind of calm in a hospital anymore. After all of their issues, she is thanking her lucky stars that she was even able to convince him to get the procedure done at all.

They walk into the hospital and into administration to get checked in. It is a simple, outpatient procedure, so the forms are minimal. Melissa had given the hospital a heads-up about Stiles’ anxiety, so he is short-listed and brought into a room in less than ten minutes.

“Why am I doing this again?” Stiles asks as he paces back and forth in his hospital room, the back of the hospital gown he is wearing floating open. Lydia is sitting on his hospital bed and getting quite a show.

She looks up at him and speaks softly. “Stiles, if it is really this big of a problem for you, we don’t have to stay. We will go back home right now. We can figure something else out.”

Stiles stops his pacing and looks at her. She looks so small, sitting there on his bed, her hands clenched in her lap. His own anxiety and fears had temporarily blinded her to him, and now that he sees her again, his heart breaks immediately. He quickly walks over and sits next to her on the bed, enveloping her in his arms and resting his chin on the top of her head. “ _God_ , Lydia. I’m so sorry. No, I’m doing this. I have to do this. For us. This is easy, right?” He sounds like he is trying to convince himself more than her. “This is just a simple in-and-out, and when its done, we won’t have to worry about things again.”

They are both silent, thinking of the series of events that had brought them here. Stiles trails his fingers up and down Lydia’s arms, giving her goosebumps.

“Hey--we still have time to get a fully-loaded one in before my surgery…” The mischievous timbre is back in his voice.

Lydia playfully pushes off of him. “You are the most ridiculous, _horny_ man. But I love you.”

Stiles bends down to kiss her gently. “I love you, too, Lydia Martin Stilinski.” He means to kiss her softly just once, but he forgets where he is like he always does when he kisses her, and soon his arms are wrapped around her again, and he is pulling her back onto the hospital bed on top of him.

“Well, I see now why you two are here.” The nurse can't hide the humor from her voice, and Stiles and Lydia pull away and straighten up, grinning at the nurse. “Are you ready, Mr. Stilinski?”

Lydia cuts off Stiles’ sarcastic response. “Yes, he is ready.”

“Mrs. Stilinski, if you want to take a seat in the waiting room, we will wheel Mr. Stilinski into surgery. He’ll be done in no time at all, and you all should be headed home in a couple of hours after the anesthetic wears off.”

Lydia stands up and settles herself in between Stiles’ legs that hang from the side of the bed. Her hands rest on his knees, her fingers circling the scars on his kneecaps. “You are the bravest man I have ever met. Thank you so much for doing this for us.” She moves her hands to the sides of his face, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, getting lost in his amber-colored eyes. His hair at her fingertips is peppered with grays now--Lydia liked to tease him about it, but she secretly thinks it makes him look even sexier than when they were teenagers. It means he is a survivor. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” She lays a gentle kiss on his lips and steps back so the nurse can adjust the arm rails. She holds his hand, squeezing it gently, letting go when the bed rolls out of the room. Her eyes don't leave him until they roll through the double doors at the end of the hall. She hears the nurse’s voice trailing behind them.

“You’ll be just fine, Mr. Stilinski. Nothing to worry about.”

 

***********************

 

_He is ravenous. Nothing that he consumes, large or small, can satisfy the constant ache in his stomach--if you can call what he fills with food a ‘stomach’. The first time he saw his new appearance reflected back at him in the mirror, he dry-heaved for several hours. His old body had been strong, fit, handsome. He had commanded fear and exuded power. This new body is distorted, skin wrinkled, non-human. His fingers look more like talons, his arms and legs unnaturally long. But his middle bows outward--the emaciated appearance of a being, starving for food._

_His consolation is that no one noticed him. He is invisible to others. He searches for food in the daylight hours, though the sun scorches his eyes and burns his pale skin and he finds himself reduced to the shadows, crawling along the underbelly of society._

_His constant companion is insatiable hunger. He first tried food stolen from a grocery store, but it tasted like nothing. Not even the sweetest food had an effect on his tastebuds or his hunger. He soon discovered that the food that had taste for him was also what his sense of smell could guide him towards. It started with rats--his disgust at his predicament overshadowed by his raving hunger. The taste was mildly improved over the completely tasteless grocery store food, but he would not consider dining on rats to be an acceptable method of satisfying the hunger. He followed with other animals, but nothing quenched the thirst._

_Then, late one night, he is in an alley searching the dumpsters when he hears someone scream behind him. A young woman, holding a pharmacy bag and tissues, looks his direction. She can see him. He quickly attacks, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the alley, his hand clamping over her mouth. She fights against his spindly arms, but as his grip on her mouth goes tighter, her screams stop and she sags limply in his arms. And he feels a change._

_His stomach still ached, his body craving nourishment. But a sensation unlike anything he has experienced before is trailing up from his hand and through his arm straight into his heart. It feels strong and powerful, like it fills his marrow and plumps up his skin with body and warmth. A delicious scent fills his nostrils and he realizes...it is the smell of her emotions. He sees flashes behind his vision, a picture of himself through her eyes, the emotion that had flooded her when she took him in coloring his vision. He realizes that he is feeding….on her fear. It is instantly addictive. He releases her when he feels the feeling begin to dissipate, and she sinks to the ground, unconscious. The emotion that he has taken from her fills his veins, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanishes, returning him to his state of waste and want and hunger._

_Awareness floods him. He is ravenous for food, yes. But this new discovery feels...important. The power it gave him was more addictive than his need for food, and he immediately goes in search of someone else to feed upon. He finds a young man at a bus stop and stands in front of him, and while the man shivers, he takes no notice of the figure in front of him. Again, he can't be seen. He wraps his long fingers around the boy’s neck and sees the images flashing across his vision, but the scenes are barely visible, the sensation he had before, non-existent--the boy in front of him doesn't know real fear. He is too young to know fear that grips you and threatens to pull you under._

_Why was the girl different--why could she see him and feel him and they boy can not? Then he remembers the pharmacy bag the girl had been holding, and the tissues. She had been sick. She could see him and he could feed on her because she was weakened. He smiles to himself and turns his nose to the air, sniffing out the new smell of emotion. He follows the scent through the streets until he catches a particularly strong strain of fear--and worry? He follows it until it leads him to a familiar place. Of course--the hospital._

_The smells assault him and he breathes them in deliciously. He follows a particularly strong one into a room where an old woman is getting treatment from an IV. The woman’s eyes widen at the sight of him. She tries to yell, but when he places his hand on the old woman’s arm, her sound is cut off and she can only stare in horrified surprise at him. The feeling washes through him again, stronger this time. The woman’s eyes close and she slumps in her chair. The pictures that cross his vision are clearer this time, images of IVs and a man in a casket and an empty home. As the images fade, so does the feeling flooding his body, and he releases her arm._

_Possibility floods him. He had been cursed to this body, but the voice he had heard had not counted for this. The voice thought he would wander this earth. That he would take his punishment with thankfulness, for the opportunity to try again. They did not know who they were dealing with. He would find someone full of emotions, gather strength, feeding on every fear and every worry and every heartache. He would gather that power and break this curse._

_They wouldn’t be able to stop him._

 

*********************

 

“Mrs. Stilinski?” Lydia looks up from her work, unfolding her legs from underneath her. Dr. Alexander is in front of her, with a pleased expression on his face. “Everything went just as expected, ma’am. He had a little trouble with the needle for the anesthetic (Lydia rolls her eyes at this-- _how typical_ ), but everything was fine after that. He will probably stay asleep another forty minutes or so. We have wheeled him back into his room, if you would like to join him.” 

“Yes, please.” Lydia gathers her things and slides her shoes back on. She is anxious to see him, to assure herself that he is okay. _It was only a 10-minute procedure, he’s fine, Lydia_ , she reassures herself. Her mirror neurons must be firing overtime today--Stiles’ anxiety didn't usually have quite this effect on her, but she’s been nervous since she lost sight of him heading into surgery, and she can't shake the odd feeling. Once she sees him, she will feel better.

Her high heels click on the hallway tile as she makes her way to his room, but as she passes the nurse’s station, she hears a familiar voice call to her, and she smiles.

“Lydia! There you are. I was just finding out which room they put Stiles in.” Melissa gives Lydia a small hug, and they continue walking together, Melissa’s arm around Lydia’s waist. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get up to see you earlier. We are in the middle of budget analysis, and I kept getting called away.”

“No worries. I know you have a lot on your plate here. Dr. Alexander talked to me and said everything went well. He should be coming out of anesthesia soon.”

Melissa smiles. “Yes, but I know how Stiles gets, and I wanted to make sure that _you_ were okay. I’m surprised Miryam could let you go for a few days.”

Lydia nods. “It has been really busy, but she understands. She’s actually covering my classes for me while I’m gone. I think they may end up liking the substitute more than me.”

“Not possible, sweetheart.” Melissa gives Lydia’s shoulders a squeeze. They round the corner to Stiles’ room, Melissa guiding Lydia to go in first.

Lydia sets her things down and walks to the side of his bed, tucking in the covers and pushing the hair back from his forehead to give him a kiss on his temple.

Melissa stands at the foot of the bed. “It’s so strange to see him so quiet and peaceful.”

Lydia smiles sadly, “He’s been more anxious than usual, with all the appointments and the tests. He hasn’t been sleeping well--I am a little relieved he was put under anesthetic so he could actually get some rest for once.”

“Lydia? Are _you_ okay?”

Lydia takes a deep breath. “It will be a relief to not have to worry about this anymore. It was…” She looks up at Melissa, her eyes beginning to water. “...it was slowly killing us, I think.”

Melissa steps toward Lydia, her arms outstretched, and envelopes her in a hug. She places a gentle kiss on the top of Lydia’s head.

“You two have been through more than almost everyone I know. You deserve to have some peace.”

A man appears in the doorway and clears his throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Stilinski?”

“Yes?” Melissa and Lydia answer in tandem. They look at each other and grin.

“I’m sorry, _Doctor_ Stilinski.”

“Yes?” Lydia and Melissa answer again, enjoying the moment.

“Umm…” The man looks slightly bewildered at the two women.

Melissa spares him. “We’re both doctors--but I think you want to speak to the Chief Nursing Officer, correct?” The man looks relieved. “That’s me. How can I help you?”

“Thank you, ma’am. They need you in the board meeting.”

Melissa sighs and turns back to Lydia. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. They’re trying to cut my nurses’ budget in half. Mama Stilinski doesn’t play around with that. Gotta put on my claws.” Lydia smiles. “I will come to check on you before Stiles is discharged, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom.” Lydia watches Melissa leave and then squeezes Stiles’ hand. She bends down so her nose grazes the side of his hair. She breathes in his familiar, comforting scent. “You did it, my love. You made it through. We won’t have to do this again. Now wake up so I can take you home.”

 

**********************

 

_He wanderes down another hallway and the smell coming from the next patient room nearly knocks him over. The worry is so strong. He instantly craves it. He quickly moves into the room and stops short in the doorway. It can't be. Recognition fills him. He knows these people. They are older but he would never forget those faces. The torment they had caused him._

_He walks into the room, the woman in the chair shivering slightly as he passes. She rubs her arms to quell the goosebumps and looks up--but she cannot see him. She glances at the clock on the wall, then looks toward the figure on the bed whose eyes are closed, watching him with care and concern._

_It is the man who gets his full attention. The long, lanky limbs. The upturned nose. The hair, starting to gray, lines in his face more prominent, but still, the man he remembers. His fingers trail up the man’s arms, faint images flashing across his vision as he does so: bright lights and gray satin and red stains. The growing familiarity of the sensation trailing up his arm. The man on the bed gives a slight movement and a gasp is released from his lips, but he does not awaken._

_The woman stands, the concern showing in the faint lines on her face as she moves to the side of the bed. She has aged beautifully, he notices. He remembers her in her youth, a vision of beauty and red hair, a perfect trophy. But she had gotten smarter, stopped trusting, and she became an enemy. Another enemy in a long line of people in between him and his goals._

_She laces her fingers through his on the bed, pressing her lips to his temple. “Stiles?” she says softly in his ear. There is no movement._

_The figure had wanted to find someone full of emotion. Someone with fears and worries and heartache in abundance. He smiles. He had found the perfect target._


	2. A Spirit is Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go back and read chapter 1, if you haven't yet.
> 
> Thank you to Rachel (writergirl8) for helping clean up and emotionalize this beast.  
> Extra thanks to Sydney (loveroflight24) who helped glue my pieces back together after this chapter broke me.
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger warning for chapter 2: Pregnancy related medical issues, emotional and physical

 

***********************

 

On this bald hill the new year hones its edge.

Faceless and pale as china

The round sky goes on minding its business.

Your absence is inconspicuous;

Nobody can tell what I lack.

-Sylvia Plath

 

**************************

 

 _Where is the doctor?_ Lydia’s patience is running out. In the first 40 minutes since Stiles returned to the room, she saw one nurse come in to check Stiles’ blood pressure and temperature. “He’s doing just fine, he’ll be awake soon,” she had said. But then an hour had passed, and then two, and now it was going on three and Stiles still isn't awake, and the stream of nurses with their repeated checks and vague answers only became more frequent. A nurse comes in to draw blood. Another hooks Stiles up to a heart monitor machine. The steady blips should be reassuring to Lydia, but they only set her on edge. Something is  _wrong_. She is about to march out to that nurse’s station and demand to see Dr. Alexander immediately, when he appears in the doorway, Melissa with him.

“Mrs. Stilinski.” His voice is low, grave. Lydia knows that voice, and she steels herself against it.

“What is _happening_?” She tries to keep the shrillness out of her voice, but she is finding it more difficult. This was a simple procedure, and they were supposed to be away from here by now.

“Frankly, we don’t know. He should have been awake over two hours ago. His heart rate is fine, his breathing is normal. Every indication is that he should be awake; but he’s not.” Lydia’s heart fell. “We have run some blood work and are monitoring his heart rate, but so far there is no indication of an infection. We will monitor his breathing to make sure there is no respiratory depression or cardiovascular collapse, but I’m afraid we are in a holding pattern right now.”

Lydia can't think of what to say. She stands in shocked silence. Finally, she chokes out, “Okay. Thank you.”

Dr. Alexander gives her a sympathetic look and leaves the room. Melissa steps into the room and closes the door. She walks to Lydia and puts her hands on her shoulders. “Lydia. Dr. Alexander, the other doctors...they have _no_ idea what is wrong. What’s happening to Stiles just doesn’t happen in this type of procedure. There’s no medical answer for this.”

“Because it’s supernatural.” Lydia responds, almost automatically. She digs through her purse to grab her phone, pressing a button and tapping her foot anxiously. After two rings, a voice calls out a friendly greeting through the receiver.

Lydia wastes no time. “Scott. Get here. Now.”

 

**********************

 

_Stiles’ eyes flutter open. The criss-cross pattern on the ceiling above him is unfamiliar. He blinks his eyes a few times, trying to release the fog. Everything looks so fuzzy. He tries to move his arms, but they are still heavy from the anesthetic. His head turns to the side and he sees Lydia, engrossed in work._

_He is content to sit and watch her for hours; the way her hair tumbles over her shoulders, the way she tucks her toes under herself to keep them warm, how she seems to breathe differently when she's working— like the corners of her brain are getting a proper workout and it fills her with life. He had seen this long before others had noticed, and he never got tired of watching her in her element. He hates to interrupt, but if there is anything he loves more than watching her work, it is seeing the smile reach her eyes when she looks at him._

_“Hey there, beautiful.” His voice is soft, cracking from lack of use, and he smiles at her in greeting, ready to meet her eyes when she looks up at him._

_She doesn't move. Her eyes skim over the tablet in front of her, the end of her pen cap in her mouth (a bad habit she picked up from him), but she doesn't look up._

_Stiles clears his throat. “Hey, Lydia,” he says again, a little louder._

_She swipes the tablet front of her, uncrossing and recrossing her legs underneath herself, but gives no indication that she hears him at all._

_“LYDIA!” His arms jerk with the force of his yell and he realizes that they can move now. But, somehow, they are stuck in place. With effort, he lifts his head and looks down the bed, his eyes widening at what he sees._

_“What the fuck, Lydia? Why am I tied to this bed?” He pulls against the restraints, feeling the pain as the tight bonds dig into his wrists, panic creeping up as he realizes that Lydia isn't noticing him. It is like..._

_“She can’t hear you.”_

_An unearthly voice sounds from the other side of the room-dividing curtain, the slight movement behind it causing it to flutter. Stiles’ head turns quickly toward the sound of the voice, trying to find its source._

_“She what?” Stiles looks at Lydia again. He tries to wave at her, even with his arms pinned to his side._

_“She can’t hear you.”_

_“No, that’s ridiculous.” Stiles counters. “She’s right_ there _.”_

_But the longer he looks at Lydia, the more he realizes that what the voice was saying is true. She can't hear him. He kicks his legs, he yells and thrashes around. Still, nothing. Realization rolls over him like a wave, threatening to pick him up and smash his body into pieces. They had fought hundreds of battles, thousands even, as members of the McCall pack. But they had always fought against a common enemy together, side by side. They could anticipate an enemy, communicating to each other through nuance, through touch. He guided her scream, made her bold with his words. They were fearsome, because they were one unit. No one had ever been able to come between them, to separate them...until now._

_How could they fight together, if she couldn’t hear his call?_

_His voice emerges in a whisper, fear choking off the sound. “She should be able to hear me.”_

_“I’m sure that seems true. But there are barriers between our dimension and hers. You’ll learn about them soon enough. For now, I’m keeping you here with me. We have a lot to talk about.”_

_Stiles pulls against his restraints, trying to loosen them, but they only cut into the skin at his wrists._

_“Who are you?”_

_The voice ignores his questions. “I came across this place from my past. Imagine my surprise to find you in it. You and I have a long history, one that is not interesting enough to repeat.”_

_Stiles recognizes the familiarity with which the voice speaks to him. They must know each other. But the voice is off. Non-human. “What do you want with me?”_

_“I have recently made an interesting discovery.” The voice moves, the curtain fluttering. Stiles notices Lydia shiver in her seat. Can she sense the motion? “I am here to feed, my hunger insatiable. But what I really hunger for— what I have always hungered for— is power.”_

_“Yeah? Well you’re not going to get any power from me. I’m the least powerful person I know.”_

_“_ She _has power.”_

_Stiles freezes and his eyes widen. The silence weighs heavy on Stiles’ chest. It knows about Lydia. It knows about Lydia? Anxiety blooms in his chest. The fear that he had pushed down before is rising again, and it is getting harder and harder to quell._

_The voice continues to move around the room. Stiles wants to see who it is. To size him up. To know what he is facing._

_“Listen, you fucker. You don’t know anything about her. But I swear to_ God _I will end you if you so much as look at her.”_

 _“I have intimate knowledge of her...abilities. But what are_ you _going to do for her? You can’t even get yourself out of this bed.” At this, Stiles pulls and tugs against the restraints holding him back again. Stiles hears an amused laugh interrupting his vain struggle._

_“Do you think you’ll be able to protect her from me...when you can’t even protect yourself?” The snide comment hangs in the air as the voice emerges from behind the curtain._

_Stiles had seen many monstrous things in his years since he had been thrown into the supernatural world. Many of them had been terrifying. This? It is almost comical. The long neck, the distended belly, the skinny, too-long arms and legs. It looks like a caricature gone wrong. But the way that the creature looks at Stiles is what makes him menacing._

_It is familiarity._

_The creature isn't seeing him as a stranger.  This creature looks at him as if he knows all of Stiles’ secrets and shames. And Stiles can't contain his fear. This creature, though unfamiliar, is more dangerous than he appears._

_“Who the hell are you?”_

_The creature inhales deeply, an ecstasy sweeping across its features. “Your fear smells delicious. I can’t wait to take it from you.”_

_The creature walks slowly, purposefully past the foot of the bed, trailing its long fingers along the railing, contemplation flickering in its gaze._

_“So. Let’s find out why you’re here, shall we?” He reaches out his arm, his talon-like fingers wrapping around Stiles’ wrist like a vice. Stiles tries to scream, but no sound emerges. His back arches off the bed, his eyes rolling, and he feels a fire erupt around his body. It races down his arms and out of his wrists where the creature holds him. His vision blurs with pain, and then all goes black._

 

********************

 

“Lydia, I’m home!” Stiles throws the keys toward the hooks next to the door, hoping for a miracle. They crash into the wall and fall to the floor. “Damn it. One of these days, that’s going to _work_.” He leans down to pick up the keys and is greeted with a wet nose nudging his palm.

“Hey there, Padfoot! What’s goin’ on, buddy? What’d you bring me today?” Stiles says, bending down to give the black labradoodle his attention, but in an unusual display, the dog turns away and runs to the bottom of the steps.

“What is it, boy? No love for me?” Padfoot leaps up the stairs, two at a time, leaving Stiles confused. Padfoot usually brought a chew toy as a greeting gift ,and he never ran away. “Lydia?” he calls upstairs. He sets down his messenger bag and takes off his worn sneakers. Lydia hates them, but they are so worn-in he can't part with them. Thankfully the station doesn't care what he wears--that’s the best part about being on the radio. He showed up one day in full Mets regalia (including baseball-shaped helmet) when they went to the playoffs, and no one batted an eye.

Stiles glances around the first floor of the condo, the silence setting him on edge. It's Wednesday. She didn’t have labs in the afternoon on Wednesday, so she usually came home and they ordered takeout and snuggled on the couch and watched reruns of _Friends_ or _Gilmore Girls_ together. She usually greeted him at the door, laughingly playing the role of Suzie Homemaker for one day (which Stiles didn’t mind. He loved when she opened the door for him wearing the frilly apron and nothing underneath).

Padfoot comes running down the steps again, whining this time. He runs to Stiles and circles his legs, then runs back to the steps and up again.

“Lydia? Where are you?” For another moment there is silence, and then a shrill scream erupts from upstairs, one that has him simultaneously covering his ears and taking the steps two at a time.

His heart is pounding an erratic beat in his chest, but it comes to a complete stop when he finds red paw prints on the hardwood leading to the bathroom, Padfoot crouching in a corner of the bedroom, whining continuously. Stiles rounds the corner to the bathroom and freezes.

He had seen Lydia this way once, fifteen years before. Then she had been laying on the floor of the sheriff’s office, her side pouring blood from Tracey’s attack. The effect on him is worse now, seeing her slouched over in their bathroom, with a red pool spreading from underneath her, a stark contrast against the white hexagonal tile they had laid last summer. She is folded in front of the toilet with her arms braced on the floor, her red hair matted and curtaining her face. Shattered glass from the mirror covers and surrounds her, the result of her scream. Her voice is scratchy and hushed as she senses him, “Stiles?”

His throat is instantly dry and his voice shakes, “ _Oh my God,_ Lydia. _”_ At the sound, Lydia looks up at him, her eyes red with tears, as mascara streaks down her face. Stiles instantly kneels down next to her, his knees hitting the tile, splashing in the blood that lay beneath them. He moves close to her, desperate to hold her, but also terrified of hurting her.

“Stiles,” Lydia whispers, her voice laced with pain. “Stiles, _the baby.”_

His knees were being cut by the shards of glass, but nothing would compare to the pain of the knife that had been shoved into his chest with her words. She is losing the baby.

He moves so his knees are touching hers, gently lifting her chin and placing his hands on either side of her face. He gently caresses her tear-stained cheeks, trying to comfort her without words. He knows that nothing he can say can take away this pain.

“I’m...so sorry Stiles. The heartbeat was so strong--" Her voice finally breaks.

Stiles shushes her gently, and envelopes her upper body against his. The sound of her cries into his chest twist the knife in his heart until he is sure that his blood mingles with hers, dripping down the hilt and staining their parental dreams in a crimson that will never wash away.

But he still tries to wash it away, to attempt to soothe her in the only way he can, to heal her broken parts with his fumbling fingers the way he has always done. He gently places her in the bath, and together they watch the red, the pain, and the dreams swirl together and run down the drain with the water from the shower head. He runs the spray over her trembling skin, his tears mixing with the droplets that clean her body, but won’t come close to cleansing her heart.

Stiles wraps her up in his biggest fleece hoodie, lowering her gently onto their bed and covering her with the comforter. He knows that all the blankets they own won’t stop her trembling. Placing a tender kiss on her forehead, he heads downstairs to brew her some tea. When he returns, arms laden with old towels, Lydia is sound asleep, her hair fanned out behind her on her pillow. She is curled into herself, her arms wrapped around his old pillow, her nose buried into the pillowcase that they argue about. He knows it’s moments like this that make her arguments against it half-hearted. He places the mug on the bedside table and turns to the bathroom.

He allows his mind to go to the place it goes when he is interviewing someone; a place where emotion has no hold, he is stoic and unmoving. His mind needs to be in this place to do what he does next. He unfolds the towels one by one, placing them across the floor. His eyes register the red seeping through the fabric, the towels becoming thick and heavy with blood. He is careful with the larger clump of tissue that he finds, as he wraps it gently in a small washcloth. He _almost_ breaks, but he refuses to allow those thoughts to take him where they so desperately want to go. Once the floor is clean and white again, he carries the pile of towels downstairs.

Stiles’ hands shake as he places the washcloth in a plastic bag. He knows that later, Lydia will want to say goodbye. He puts the towels into a trash bag and carries it into the garage, tossing it in the bin. When he closes the lid, he notices his hands. His fingers are marred with blood. The crimson had seeped through the fibers of the cloths, making its way around his fingernails. Tears that had threatened to fall before were finally breaking through, clouding his vision.

He moves to his workbench and grabs a pair of scissors and string. He cuts a length from the spool, his hands fumbling. He grabs the small blue baseball bat from the stand, the white ‘Daddy’s Little Mets Fan’ lettering getting smeared with the red from his hands. Tying the string around the end, he slides it down so it aligns with the other strings that were already in place.

“One...two...” His fingers carefully trace over each of them in turn, the color of the string matching the stains on his hands. “three…four...five.”

“Red is for unsolved,” Stiles whispers.

It is then that he breaks. He doesn’t have supernatural powers. His scream can’t defend himself, or protect the woman he loves. It can’t bring back the children they will never meet. But he screams anyway, the agonizing sound ripping through him, leaving jagged edges behind that will never heal.

 

***********************

 

Lydia is nervously scouring through the bestiary on her tablet, the steady _beep-beep-beep_ of the EKG monitor a comforting background noise. Suddenly, as if from far away, she hears Stiles’ gut-wrenching scream.

“Stiles?” She looks up just in time to see Stiles’ body go completely rigid, his head arching back against his pillow. The heart monitor, so steady a moment before, spiked rapidly, over and over, the line on the monitor showing wild points up and down like needlepoints.

“Oh my god, _Stiles_!” Lydia jumps to her feet, her tablet crashing to the floor. She stops in confusion when she sees his mouth is closed. But his scream still fills her ears. Her eyes are wide as she watches his heart monitor, the rapid change signaling an alarm that Lydia hears in the nurses’ station across the hallway. A nurse comes bustling into the room, takes in the scene before her eyes, and grabs for the phone in the room, paging the doctor.

The sounds and the movement in the room fade together for Lydia. She knows there are people coming and going, and feels movement around her, but she can only focus on the sound of Stiles’ scream. She remembers that scream from a not-so-distant past. She had been in bed, drained of blood and full of pain; the sound had jarred her from her troubled sleep. And even though his scream had come from such a far distance, she would never forget it. It was a scream of loss, of pain so deep it came from a place inside his soul. The agony so palpable it left a imprint on her memory that would never disappear.

She stares at Stiles’ body, the movements around him blurring out of focus as his scream echoes loudly in her head. She is aware of a tightening sensation in her chest that pulls outward, like the tether connecting them has suddenly been yanked as tightly as it will go, and it threatens to tear through her chest. She wants to hold on to it, to keep it from snapping away from her, but there is nothing to hold. The fear sends chills down her spine. She wants to drown out Stiles’ scream with one of her own. She lifts her hands and presses them into her ears to try to block out the agony, until suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the scream stops.

A crash cart is wheeled into the room and prepped, the doctors and nurses shouting instructions at each other, and without cause, Stiles’ body relaxes and his heart monitor returns to normal. The team surrounding him exchange looks of confusion and watch the monitor for a few seconds, searching for answers, but finding none. The steady _beep-beep-beep_ returns to its comforting pace. Lydia drops her hands from her ears and looks to the nurses, questioningly.

“What the hell?” The head nurse voices what everyone in the room is thinking. The team continues to check Stiles’ vital signs, listening to the sounds coming from his chest with tools and machines, _trying_ to find the anomaly— but his body betrays their efforts. He lays as still as he had been a few moments before, all of his readings showing no sign of the stress his body has just endured.

The return to normalcy should comfort Lydia. It should bring her peace, knowing that he is out of danger. But in truth, she feels like her mind and her body are off-kilter. Something about Stiles’ scream has taken something out of her as well. It is like she has been _drained_ , and it leaves her breathless and exhausted.

She feels a gentle hand on her arm, and she turns to see a pair of warm brown eyes looking at her, concerned.

“Scott.” Lydia’s voice catches in her throat as she envelops him in a hug. His broad arms wrap around her, and Lydia wonders again how she had ever survived without Scott McCall in her life. Just his being there makes her feel safer.

“What’s going on, Lydia?” She takes his hand and pulls him into the hallway, away from the noise and the ears of the nursing team. She catches him up on the surgery, the anesthetic, how Stiles didn’t wake up, and his recent attack.

Lydia’s voice drops low but the urgency remains. “But Scott, what’s happening to Stiles? It’s _different_. Something is in that room. Something is doing this to him.”

Scott’s eyes widen, concern etching the lines around his eyes. “What? How do you know?”

“I...I don’t know for sure. But right after the surgery, I felt the room change. There was a rush of cold air, and I just felt...I don’t know. It felt _different_.” Lydia huffs in frustration, lacing and unlacing her fingers, fidgeting for a way to explain. She is used to understanding. But how can she explain something she doesn't understand?

“I could hear him screaming. His mouth wasn’t open, but I heard him screaming in my head. Scott, we have to help him.”

Scott’s eyes go from concerned to determined. He puts his hands gently on hers, and his warmth calms her agitation. Her fingers still. “Lydia. You and Stiles have the strongest connection of anyone. If you know something is happening to him, I believe you.”

Lydia breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ve been searching through the bestiary and the online demonology journals, trying to find something that might explain this. I haven’t found anything so far, but I thought we could find something faster if we work together.”

Scott nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Deaton is covering things at the Clinic. I’ll call him with what is happening. He can help us, too.”

Lydia turns to go back into the room. “I hope so. I have a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

 

********************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter broke me. I literally couldn't write for days after writing the miscarriage scene. Stiles and I had some times together putting that on paper.
> 
> There is more explanation to come, I promise. And, at least for now, this is the most heart-wrenching part of the story. So I hope you forgive me.
> 
> As always, a writer breathes for acknowledgement. If you like what you've read so far, please drop some kudos, or a quick comment. I would greatly appreciate it.
> 
> My intention is to publish one chapter a week, either on Saturday or Sunday. Feel free to subscribe to this story to keep updated.
> 
> And give me your theories about the creature. Next chapter, it will be revealed.
> 
> Find me on Twitter and tumblr: @im2old4thisotp


	3. A Spirit Aflame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanted to know who the creature is, you got it.
> 
> This story literally would not exist if it weren't for Sydney. Truly. Thank you, @loveroflight24, for reading this and giving me all the feels. Your encouragement of "best yet" has powered me through writing. I love you, my girl.
> 
> As always, thanks Rachel, for discussing Stydia with me and giving me all the thoughts, all the time.
> 
> I love you all for continuing to be excited about this story. I'm excited to continue sharing it with you.
> 
> *muah!*
> 
> pssst....comment and kudos, will ya?

 

********************

 

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

-W.S. Merwin

 

*********************

 

_The scream Stiles emitted stretches with him into consciousness, and startles him awake as he feels the trails of fingers leave his wrist. Stiles’ breath is coming in short bursts, like he had run a great distance, when in fact he is still bound to the bed. His eyes are filled with tears, the memory that he had just relived as vivid as the day he had experienced it and he feels drained, like whatever has happened has taken some of his life away._

_“Now that--” the figure leers, “was delicious.”_

_“What...in the hell...did you just do to me?” Stiles’ voice cracks, words tumbling through his gasps._

_“I fed on your pain. Your fears and your insecurities flow through my veins now, and they give me the strength I crave.”  The hand that had been around Stiles’ wrist raises to the creature’s mouth, and he licks the fingers of his hand one at a time. “Too bad about the babies, really. But they gave it the richest, most metallic taste.”_

_“You fucker. I’m going to_ kill _you. I’m…” Stiles wants to throw up. Watching the creature treat his pain like a dessert sends him spiraling into a blind rage. He struggles against his bonds again. He is going to kill this thing. Rip it apart with his bare hands for prying into his head. For taking his worst memories by force, and for mocking him with them._

_He raises his head with revenge in his eyes, but he stops as he notices the room looks different. He looks to where Lydia had been sitting before, but the chair is empty. His eyes open wide and he looks wildly for her around the room, finally spotting her in the doorway. He relaxes, but his breath catches a bit when he realizes that she too, looks different. Her appearance is the same, but she looks like she is standing behind a veil. Her edges are blurry, the colors in her green jacket are_ _muted._

_The entire room appears this way, like a cloud has settled over it, making it look more ethereal, but in Stiles’ mind, it only makes it look more frightening. What if it is disappearing on him? Or worse--what if he is disappearing on her? He looks down at himself and is comforted to see that his own body is still in full contrast, the bed that he is tied to still in full color, but everything around him is fading._

_He lifts his eyes. “Lydia? What’s happening?”_

_The creature let out a short laugh. “I told you, she can’t hear you. We exist on a different plane--you can yell. You can scream. You can do body rolls on the ceiling, if your heart desires. But you will never reach her.”_

_Stiles shut his eyes against the words, and tries to block out the sound of the laughter. He had automatically looked to Lydia for answers. It’s what they had done for years. They constantly tackled problems together, solving riddles out loud, challenging each other with facts and clues and theories. It was a habit he never thought he would have to break. He is rocked again by the knowledge that they are separated, with no information about why it happened or how to change it. He can feel his chest tightening, the panic rising and his breaths coming closer together._

_“What do you want from me?” He focuses on the calming techniques that he and Lydia had worked on together. He hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack for years, and he wasn’t about to start now, not with the threat of this creature next to him._

_The creature’s mouth curves into a smile. It’s fingers thread together as if it is deciding what to do next.. “I want what I have always wanted. Power.”_

_“I told you. I’m not powerful--”_

_“--Oh, but you are. Power isn’t just physical. You don’t have the strength of a demon. You don’t have the voice of a banshee. But you have strong emotions, Stiles. And to me, those are worth more.”_

_“Are you kidding me?” Stiles spits out, incredulously. “You want me because I’m emotional?”_

_“I am supposed to use the time here on this earth like a redo. But that means crawling around this godforsaken earth eating scraps and hoping I get a chance in the next life. That just doesn’t work for me. I need power_ now _. In my short time in this body, I have learned that feeding on food doesn’t satisfy me. It’s an endless hunger that never goes away. But feeding on emotions…” The creature’s voice drifts off and its eyes close._

 _“Emotions fill me with a strength and energy unlike anything you can imagine. You say you aren’t powerful, Stiles. But as the human amongst supernaturals, your capacity for emotion is greater than anyone else in your pack. They’re strong_ **_,_ ** _they keep your pack grounded and they are exactly what I will need to break through this dimension and exact my revenge on everyone--starting with the banshee you keep staring at over there.”_

_“You leave her the hell alone. You’ll have to go through me before you get to her.”_

_“Oh, I fully intend to, Stiles. Once I’m finished taking all your most intoxicating memories, I will--”_

_“--Stop.” Stiles interrupts with eyes wide, as a sudden realization hits him like lightning. “How do you know my name? How do you know that she’s a banshee, and that I’m in a pack of werewolves? Who the fuck_ are _you?”_

_The creature smiles. “I told you before, Stiles. You and I have great history together. I find it...poetic...that you be the one to help me gather strength and power again. After all, you’ve helped me before.”_

_“We have history? And I’ve helped you?” Stiles scoffs. “You’re a spaghetti-armed freak of nature. I would never help you.”_

_“Oh, you don’t remember me in my current state.” The creature gestures to his deformed body. “But we have many memories together. Let me remind you.”_

_The creature steps toward him, leaning close. Stiles tries pulling back, away from it. The pain that he had re-lived earlier was still echoing in his memory. He quickly turns his head away, but the creature grabs Stiles’ chin and turns it back. They lock eyes, the creature’s other hand grips Stiles’ shoulder, the talons digging into his flesh. The fire erupts again, as the pain grips him more quickly this time.  His skin and muscle and tissue sear as the image is ripped from its place in Stiles’ memory. Stiles gasps in pain as he feels the heat trail up into his shoulder, and the creature’s blue eyes are the last thing he sees as his vision fades._

 

*******************************

 

Stiles sprints across the field. He has to get to her. She is going to be attacked. The threat is right behind her.

“Lydia!” He screams her name and she turns. “ _Run!_ ”

 _Why isn't she moving?_ His vision begins to blur as his breath heaves in and out. The blood is pounding in his ears, his arms and legs pumping as hard as they can to get to her before the danger strikes. But it is too late.

He sees her fall as if it is slow-motion. Her blood-stained dress, her hair fans out and spreads on the ground. He can't tell if his heart has stopped completely, or if it is beating so fast it has become a solid hum within his chest. The man who had attacked her is crouching over her, poised to strike again.

Stiles slides the final few feet on his knees, feeling his dress pants rip, but the only thing he can see is Lydia. Is _she dead? She can't be dead._ How can she look so beautiful, even when she is so frighteningly lifeless? His mind empties of thought as he scours her body with his eyes, searching for signs of life…. _there._ A slight movement from her lips. She is alive, but barely.

 _Oh thank God, she’s alive._ He can't seem to control his shaking, which brings his mind back to the present. The danger is still imminent, the figure crouching over her demanding his attention, but Stiles can't tear his eyes away from Lydia. His brain works in time with his heartbeat. _Don’t kill her. Don’t kill her. Don’t kill her._ Then, he can't contain the mantra.

“Don’t-- don’t kill her. _Please_.” Even in his own ears, he sounds weak. The thought of losing her is taking every bit of strength out of his resolve. The figure before him is growling, demonstrating his power by stroking her cheek with his claws.

“Of course not.”

Stiles looks up at the man then, tearing his eyes away from Lydia to assess her attacker. He and the man lock eyes, brown staring into blue, and Stiles gasps.

 

*****************************

 

_Stiles’ gasp brings him back as the creature releases him, its face mere inches from his own. The body is different, stretched and deformed, but the light blue eyes that had terrified him in his memory are the same eyes staring at him now._

_“Peter?”_

 

***************************

 

Lydia is curled in the uncomfortable hospital chair next to Stiles’ bed. She shakes all the time--the room seems to be getting colder with each hour that passes, a cold that no one else seems to feel. The nurses bring her heated blankets, the worried glances they formerly aimed at Stiles now shifting to include her. She sleeps in intermittent intervals, but every second she slept felt like another minute she could be closing the gap between herself and knowing what is happening to her husband. So she stops sleeping. If she wasn’t on the tablet researching, she is pacing a well-worn path from one end of the room to the other.

She and Scott spent several hours at the hospital, going over whatever information they can think of, but the trouble is, they don't really have anything to go on, other than what they can observe from Stiles medically. Are they searching for a curse? Something that he may have ingested? Melissa passes a sample of Stiles’ blood to Deaton, who is scanning it for potential supernatural poisonings, but so far they have come up completely empty. It is frustrating the pack, who haven’t felt this lost since Stiles had been erased from their memories, years ago.

Things haven’t always been easy for Scott McCall’s pack. They’ve fought druids and witches, werewolf packs and demons. But the years have made them legendary throughout the supernatural world, because together they have beaten back anything that threatened the town of Beacon Hills, or the individual members of Scott’s pack: Liam, Stiles, Lydia, Melissa, Sheriff, Deaton. Their reach extended into Northern California as well, where the Hale pack of Derek, Cora, Isaac, and Malia had taken up residence. Working together they had kept the west coast relatively safe from the supernatural threats that had a habit of rising up.

This, however. This is different. It is just a feeling--something on a spiritual level that they can't define. Scott can't intimidate it, Liam can't fight it, Lydia can't scream it away. And Stiles--the one who always found the answers, who solved the riddles, who used his brains and his heart to keep everyone fighting and together--Stiles is the one under attack.

Scott eventually has to go home, but he is replaced by Liam, who Lydia finds significantly less comforting. Liam mostly looks confused and somewhat helpless. He’s much better in a physical fight, and since there isn't anyone to fight, he feels useless, especially since he doesn't research nearly as well as Scott and Deaton. Lydia decides that it is probably a good thing, though. With the crushing worry, the lack of sleep, and the constant state of cold, Liam is much better equipped to deal with Lydia’s worsening mood. He doesn't take it personally the way that Scott does. Scott has always made her well-being his priority. But as the days pass, and time seems to drag on and on with no answers, he can no longer hide the guilt he feels about her frayed nerves.

She flat-out refuses to leave and go to Scott’s home, even though it has been almost a week since Stiles should have been awake, and she looks a wreck. Her eyes are sunken, the dark circles underneath becoming more pronounced. She holds the mess of strawberry blonde strands laced with gray in a severe knot atop her head instead of showering.

Every time Stiles has another cardiac arrest episode--there seems to be one every few hours--it sends Lydia into a frenzy. She yells at the doctors and nurses, biting harsh words at them when they have no further answers. Her tension seems to heighten when the doctors note that each time the arrests end, his base heart rate is weaker than it was before.

Scott, Liam, and Melissa all try in vain to convince Lydia to go to Scott’s house, at least to shower and sleep. They start to talk in quiet, concerned whispers in corners of the hospital where they think Lydia can't hear.

Lydia doesn't care about the whispers from her friends, though. She doesn't care what they say about needing some damn sleep. What they don't know is how Stiles’ absence is affecting her ability to think. Her ability to focus. Her ability to _breathe_ . Stiles is slipping away from her. Not just physically, though the monitors and checks from the doctors are proof. He is slipping away from her _soul_ , and she knows it because her grip on her own stability is loosening. For years she has been able to maintain control over the whispers that invaded her brain. She could swallow back the screams and breathe deeply and evenly. Because of Stiles. Just being in his proximity had given her control over her powers. Their emotional tether had wrapped itself like a tourniquet around the things that threatened to take her sanity away, piece by piece. Now that he is absent, she feels those things flooding back into her, the tourniquet loosening and letting the screams and the madness invade back into her bloodstream like a disease.

If she closes her eyes, she sees Stiles lying in the bed, with his wrists bloodied and his eyes open and his chest torn open. She can't tell if he is living or dead, but there is a scream that constantly stands ready to erupt from her throat, tearing its claws at her every time Stiles’ heart rate spiked. The unknown of it is threatening to drag her down into a pit that she will never be able to escape from.

“I’m not leaving him!” Lydia tells Scott frantically on the tenth afternoon.

She is pacing her usual path next to Stiles’ bed, her clothes and appearance disheveled from the days without care. “What if he finally wakes up and I’m not here? What if I stop watching him and he disappears again?”

Lydia’s voice cracks at the last, and the emotion and the exhaustion finally begin to overwhelm her. Scott pulls Lydia into an embrace, and she collapses against his shoulder, letting the tears fall. “I can’t leave him, Scott. I won’t. You of all people know what it’s like to live without the woman you love. You’d give anything to bring Allison back, to have Kira return, wouldn’t you? I’ve lived without Stiles once before, and it felt like a part of me was missing. I can’t do it again. I won’t leave him behind.”

Lydia wraps her arms around Scott, holding him like the person of strength he has always been for her. Her Alpha. “He is getting weaker. I feel him getting weaker by the hour, and I don’t know how to help him, Scott. I don’t know how to bring him back.”

Melissa quietly enters the room. She steps around the bed slowly, gently covering Lydia’s hands that are wrapped around her son’s back.

“Lydia, sweetheart. I’m sorry. But you have to rest. You’re making yourself sick. Stiles wouldn’t want to see you like this. I know you think you are going to lose him--but he isn’t gone yet, and we can’t figure this out without you.”

Melissa and Scott exchange worried glances over Lydia’s head, and Scott gives an imperceptible nod. He tightens his grip on Lydia slightly, and pulls the jacket off of her shoulder.

“Scott?” Lydia tries to lift her head, but she finds herself pressed up against his side.

“Lydia, I’m sorry. You have to get some rest.”

Lydia’s eyes fly open to see Melissa uncap a syringe of clear liquid.

“Mom? What are you doing?” She tries to struggle, but she can't fight the Alpha’s strength. She feels the needle pierce the skin on her arm, and after a moment, Scott loosens his grip. She pulls away from him, looking at him with shock and betrayal in her eyes. “Scott?”

He turns away from her, the guilt obvious on his face. Lydia starts to fade, her body swaying gently.

“How could you?” she whispers.

She looks around the room, and fixes her eyes on Stiles. Suddenly, next to his bed, she sees something. Something revolting, something with its attention fixed on Stiles and malice in its eyes. Lydia tries to hold on to consciousness, to fight the blackness that clouds her vision. She tries to get a better look, but unconsciousness overtakes her and she can no longer see or feel or think, and she drifts and falls.

 

***************************

 

_Stiles can barely make out the room around him anymore. Nearly everything is an opaque white. He can just make out shadows and figures. They float in the space around him. And although he can barely make out any details in her form, he knows for certain that Lydia has never left. He saw her pacing, standing up, sitting down, never leaving the room. Measures of time started to mean nothing, but he is sure that days had passed, maybe even weeks. He knows that she is exhausted--she rarely rests, only paces or stands next to his bed or sits down, but just for brief moments before pacing again._

_He also feels her. The string that bound them together, soul to soul--the one formed in a pool of ice and strengthened through years of pain and heartache and love and passion--had been a barometer for each other. When she felt stressed from work, his own nerves felt the hum. When he finished his research, the excitement flowed back to her and she would call him to find out what happened._

_They discovered the thoroughness of their emotional bond only after they fully committed to each other. They both felt something within them change. It was like the thread that connected their souls had gone from one strand to ten to fifty, all woven through and around each other, creating a rope so thick it would be impossible to sever--or so they had hoped.  They had learned early on that they were more susceptible to danger and attack when they were physically apart--the bond between them getting stretched across the miles made it feel vulnerable and weak. They had committed to not spending more time apart than they needed to, and they always felt relieved when they were back together again and the string between them snapped back into place._

_But this distance--the creature said they were in different dimensions now. And Stiles feels almost like he had in high school, when the tether between them had vanished completely when he had been erased.  He had felt so desolate then. But this time, it is worse. In high school, they had one or two single strands connecting them. But now, after years of strengthening a connection with strand after strand, the stretching of the tether feels like it would leave a gaping wound in his chest if it is pulled too far. He relies on the tether for life. He always feels the connection to her. Always._

_But._

_Today she is approached by two figures--Stiles thinks one of them is Scott--and she falls. Stiles struggles against his bonds again. He sees Lydia fall, and the two figures carry her out of his vision. He isn't sure what happened, but he knows it isn't good, because the air around him suddenly feels colder and less solid. Like his connection to Lydia had kept him anchored to her, and now that she has fallen, everything around him has become less physical, more vaporous. Even the bed that he is on felt less weighty. And their string--the one that bound their souls--seems to have vanished altogether. Stiles didn't realize how weighty that connection was until it is suddenly gone. He feels emptied out and hollow--a shell of who he used to be._

_The pain in his chest is acute. But it is nothing compared to the fear that completely overwhelms him when he realizes that absence of the tether gives him a sudden blindness to Lydia he has never known._

_“Lydia!” he screams. But as before, no one hears him. Except for one._

_“Are you a complete idiot? I told you she can’t hear you.” Peter snarls next to his ear._

_“Shut up.” He can barely whisper the words through his panic. He keeps looking for Lydia, but she is gone. Where is she? Is she okay? Who was that with her? Did they hurt her? And the question that terrifies him the most: what has happened to their connection?_

_The questions fly through his brain faster than he can answer them with theories, and with each unanswered question comes more of a tightening in his chest, and his breathing becomes more and more labored._

_If anything happens to her, his world will crumble. It almost did before. He had made it his mission to never get that close to losing her again. It’s why they are here in the hospital in the first place, damn it. Why is something happening to her?_

_He has to get out. He always figures it out. He can do it again. Get out of the bed. Find Lydia. Restore the tether. Kill the demon. Figure it out. Figure it out._ Figure it out.

_His thoughts are interrupted by the cruel voice in his ear. “You’re trying to think of how to save her, aren’t you? You’ve been following her around your entire life. She hasn’t gotten tired of your puppy-dog ways?”_

_“You shut up about Lydia.” Stiles speaks through gritted teeth. He tries to calm his heart, to even his breathing, but it is so much harder than it was before. The control over his body is weakening. He can feel it waning every minute, and now that Lydia is out of sight, he doesn't know how long he will last._

_He fears most of all for Lydia. He knows how the bond helps keep control of her mind and her powers. An image of Meredith flashes unwanted through his mind, the banshee that had lost control of her mind. He knows that it is an image of Lydia’s future if her ability to control the screams that always threatened her suddenly disappears._

_And the creature. The creature is just getting stronger. His eyes are brightening and his form is slowly changing. It scares the hell out of Stiles._

_“How long have you loved her, Stiles? I want to see it. Show me.” The creature’s long fingers move towards Stiles’ chest._

_“No, don’t! Get away from me!” Stiles struggles, and the blood drips from his wrists where the bonds hold him. He watches the hand descend to his chest, and tries to close his mind, to keep his memories safe, to lock them where they can't be found. The fingers extend and lock on to his chest and Stiles fights it._

_Stiles feels fire erupt, feels the energy leaving his chest, and the points of contact with Peter’s fingers feel like they are burning a hole in his shirt. He can sense the memory leaving him, and he closes his eyes and focuses his energy on the spot in the center of his chest. His mind pictures a door ajar, and he focuses his energy on closing the door inch by inch. He can see fingers wrapping around the edge of the door, and he tries prying them off with his mind, one at a time._

_Peter’s eyes go wide, and then harden. “Stiles, Stiles. Don’t fight. It’s pointless. Show me how long you’ve loved her.”_

_At that, Peter clamps the other hand down on Stiles’s chest, the burning igniting his entire body on fire. Stiles’ hold on the door inside him breaks as it is wrenched away, an agonizing moan escaping his lips and his vision blackening once again._

  


**************************

 

There are a lot of things that Stiles, as a nine-year old, just shouldn’t understand. When people see him, there is an assumption about his age contributing to a lack of understanding, and because of it, people underestimate him all the time. He’s observant. He just notices things--habits and mannerisms in people much sooner than he should. He’s also criminally smart--his dad frequently reminds him, and his teachers have expressed frustration about it every year he has been in school. _He tests on the gifted level, now if only he could just learn to apply himself_ , he hears them say. He knows what that means. They want him to sit still in his seat and not fidget and stop talking and get his work done without doodling Star Wars characters along the edges of all his papers, or turning in work that looks like it has been run over by a garbage truck.

He doesn’t know why it is so hard for him to focus. His hands perpetually move, and his mind goes a mile a minute, and he has so much trouble sitting still in his seat that sometimes the teacher ends up just taking his seat away altogether. He doesn’t like listening to Mrs. Nelson, his third grade teacher, when she asks him for the fourteenth time that day to _sit still, Stiles_ , or _stop talking to your neighbor, Stiles_. Why can’t he just keep talking to his neighbor? She, after all, was much more interesting to learn from than boring Mrs. Nelson, who smelled like bad cheese. Lydia Martin, his neighbor in the desk behind him, smelled like strawberry shortcake, which he knows is from her chapstick, but he has a feeling that she smells sweet like candy even without it. She’s as smart as he is--only a different kind of smart than Stiles. She is so smart that she can always answer every question the teacher asks, and she always has much bigger books than all the other kids at Silent Reading Time, and she is the kind of fast at the timed multiplication tests that she gets to skip them altogether and play with the class hamster instead, which Stiles will be forever jealous of.

Stiles met Lydia in Kindergarten. The first day at recess, he had captured a butterfly that he found to match her blue sweater. _It doesn’t match, it’s orange,_ she had told him matter-of-factly. But he had responded that orange and blue were a perfect combination, and she had rolled her eyes at him and told him that Monarchs were actually poisonous. Stiles had looked at her with wide eyes and said, “well, don’t eat it then,” and she had eyed him carefully and walked away to go play on the swings.

Stiles has wanted to impress her ever since. He would say she is a friend (even if she wouldn’t say it back--her friends tend to laugh _at_ him more than _with_ him, and she definitely doesn’t play with him at recess or anything). He loves to try to stump her with trivia, and she doesn’t seem to care about his jumpiness or his mind that scatters, mostly because she just ignores him.

But there are some things that Stiles will never understand. He tries, really. He writes down the big words that the doctors use and brings them home to look up on the computer. He recognizes the look that all the nurses and the doctors give him when he goes to visit his mom in the hospital. The look he understands, the _why_ he does not.

He doesn’t understand why his mom doesn’t know who he is anymore. She yells at him a lot--she never used to yell, but now she bellows at him about things that don’t make sense, until his dad is able to calm her down. The worst part is when she forgets who he is. She calls him by his _real_ name, or she doesn’t know his name at all. Stiles hears his name so many times a day by so many people, but the one person he desperately wants to hear his name from doesn’t remember it anymore. She looks at him with cold, confused eyes.

One afternoon, Stiles is coloring in the chair beside her bed, his arms resting next to her as he draws their family, Dad with a badge, Mom with a batch of cookies, Stiles with a baseball bat and ball. He is concentrating hard on the details so he can show her--the more details he gives, the more she will remember. He feels a hand ruffling his hair and he looks up. He is surprised to see her looking warmly at him.

“Stiles, sweetie. What are you drawing?” His eyes immediately widen. She remembered him. He can’t contain his excitement, and he holds up his drawing proudly, telling her all about the details he was adding to their family picture. She gently falls back asleep as he talks, a small smile on her face, and he is so happy about her recognition that he keeps talking, quieter, telling her about the new book he was getting ready to read ( _Dad said I can finally start reading Harry Potter, Mom. Did you know it has 336 pages?)_ , and the case photos that his dad had let him look at the night before ( _There was blood in them, Mom. It was so awesome._ ). Her words powered him like a battery, one he didn’t know he needed to recharge until she had done it.

She dies on a Wednesday, with Stiles sitting in the chair by her side the whole time. He sees her breath slowing, the up and down of her chest spacing out further and further, the breaths coming in shorter and shorter gasps until it finally just...stops. He waits to hear another gasp, to hear her fight one more time, but she doesn’t, and when the line on the monitor next to her goes flat, he knows. He sees it happen, but he doesn’t understand it. There are people walking up and down the hallway. Don’t they know his mom just died? Conversations happen all around him, people come in and out of the space, but no one explains. No one tells him what he is supposed to do now that his world has stopped. No one tells him why it stopped in the first place.

Stiles doesn’t go to school the rest of the week. There’s a flurry of people at the house, and Stiles reads their emotions on their face, sees the looks they give him. He hides in his room, not wanting to see anyone else give him that look. He knows what pity looks like. His life is already different, with the silence from the bedroom down the hall--he doesn’t want to be reminded of it again.

Scott comes over to play, and he even tells Stiles that he wants to play with his Star Wars figurines, but Stiles knows that Scott doesn’t really want to play, he just wants to make Stiles feel better (which isn’t going to happen, because Scott _doesn’t even know who Han Solo is_ , and Stiles will only get more and more frustrated about the whole thing). So they end up sitting together and watching stupid things on TV until Mrs. McCall yells up to Scott that it’s time to go and Stiles is left in the quiet again. After a while there is a gentle knock on the door, a quiet voice asking for him, but he doesn’t want to see anyone, so he ignores the voice. There’s no one that he wants to see.

He hopes for normal when he goes back to school, but it seems like nothing in his life will ever be normal again. Its extra-quiet in his classroom, and he keeps glancing up to catch people staring at him, which just makes him even more fidgety than usual. He actually falls backwards out of his chair at one point, but no one laughs, and Stiles really, really needs them to because he hasn’t heard the sound in what seems like an eternity. When he gets up from the floor, he glances behind him at Lydia’s desk, and she is the only one not looking at him--her head is bent down over a piece of paper, her hand writing furiously, her hair curtained around her so he can’t tell what she’s doing. Probably solving a high-school math problem, like she likes to do for fun. He doesn’t even have a trivia question to stump her, so he meekly gets back into his seat and faces the front of the class.

The timed multiplication test is on his desk when Lydia walks by, on her way to where the hamster cage is located in the corner of the room. Stiles feels a twinge of jealousy--he really wants to just play with the hamster today, but his dad insisted to the teacher that things stay as routine as possible, which includes these dumb tests. But his jealousy is cut short when a folded piece of paper drops in front of him. It’s a fancily-folded note, like the ones he has seen the girls passing around when Mrs. Nelson isn’t looking. On the front, _to Stiles_ . On the back, _Do not read this in class_. He looked up at her, searching for an explanation, but her hands were full of hamster, and she wasn’t looking his way.

Lydia Martin wrote him a note? She never gives him any attention whatsoever. She doesn’t laugh when he tells jokes, she doesn’t answer when he tells her trivia. She spends most of her recess time laughing and giggling with the other girls. The clock seemed to tick by even more slowly than usual, and he practically dove out of his seat when it finally reached 11:35. He was even more thankful that their class had recess before lunch. He could read the words that had been burning a hole in his pocket all morning.

He finds a quiet corner of the playground, which isn’t hard--all the kids are avoiding him, anyway--and carefully unfolds the note, making sure to keep it as neat as possible. He is shocked to see that it isn’t a short note. It was two full pages of loopy, perfect script.

 _Dear Stiles_ ,

_Last week, I was sitting in my room reading a book. I had the windows open because it was a really nice afternoon. I was reading a chapter in Little Women, my favorite book. I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and looked up and saw a butterfly land on my windowsill. It looked like the one that you gave me in Kindergarten. Do you remember that, Stiles? I remember. It was a beautiful Monarch butterfly, bright orange and patterned black, and this one was the same. It flew into my open window and fluttered around my room, and then flew back out. A few minutes later, my mom came in and told me that your mom had died._

_Did you know that butterflies are considered a symbol for the human soul? The word butterfly comes from the greek word psyche, which means soul. In the Aztec culture, they believed that if someone died peacefully, their soul would enter a butterfly, and it would visit their relatives to assure them that all was well._

_I came to your house the other day. Your dad said you were upstairs in your room and you wouldn’t come down. I knocked on your door. Did you hear me? I’m not surprised you didn’t answer. I wouldn’t want to talk to anyone, either._

_When I left with my mom, I stopped for a minute and looked up at your window. It was closed and your curtains were closed, so I couldn’t see you. But Stiles. I saw the monarch butterfly on your window. It was the brightest orange, and it was sitting on your blue windowsill, and you’re right, Stiles. Orange and blue do look really good together. I understand it now. I watched that butterfly for a few minutes, until my mom yelled at me to get in the car. But I watched it as we drove away, and it never moved._

_And you know what? I think those Aztecs had it right. The souls of our relatives return to tell us that they’re okay. It’s why the butterfly landed so perfectly on your window, and sat so perfectly still. She was watching you. She was telling you that she is okay now, and that you’re going to be okay._

_I am glad I know you, Stiles._

Sincerely,  
Lydia Martin  


When Stiles finishes the note, he carefully folds it and puts it in his pocket. He scans the playground, searching for the strawberry blonde ringlets amongst the blonde heads she is usually surrounded by. But she isn’t with them. Instead, Stiles notices her off to the side of the playground, alone, looking at him. She had been watching him read the note.

Stiles understands a lot of things, especially for a nine-year old. But the feeling that floods him when he looks into Lydia’s eyes across the playground is new to him. It’s a warmth, something that starts inside his chest, and fills up his entire body so that he feels warm, and a little light-headed. He stares back at Lydia, noticing how she gives him a little nod and a slight smile, then goes back to her circle of friends, not sparing him a second glance.

He doesn’t understand a lot of things, but he’s pretty sure that now he knows what love feels like.

 

 

*****************


	4. A Spirit Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Jen, for reading and beta-ing for me. I have loved hashing out our fics together. It's so fun to meet someone so dedicated to their work, and I'm so happy you've been cheering me on.
> 
> Hold on to your hats, folks. This chapter zooms the plot forward!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for all your love and support for this story. Talk with me about it @im2old4thisotp on Twitter and Tumblr.

 

*****************

 

In the startled ear of night

      How they screamed out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak

      They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune…

                             -Edgar Allan Poe

 

*****************

 

_Lydia’s eyes open and she blinks, confused, the world above her a brilliant white. She pushes herself up from the surface, taking note of the room around her. Everything is white, a blanket of achromatic nothingness. The bed she was laying on (why was she laying on a bed?) had side rails and clinical-looking bedsheets. The room itself--she can barely make out its features through the whiteness--had wooden-armed chairs and nondescript paintings of flowers. She is still in the hospital._

_But what has happened to it? The whiteness has disoriented her, setting her senses on edge. She can’t trust her sight right now, but her ears seem to have tuned themselves to a higher frequency._

_The room she is in is empty, soundless. But she hears is a wailing coming from someplace outside. She moves towards the sound, trying to understand the space around her, feeling awkward and disoriented. She makes it to the doorway before she realizes._

_She knows that voice._

Stiles.

 _Her heart starts pounding a wild beat. He sounds helpless. Like he is fighting, but he is losing, and begging for mercy. Her need to understand the space disappears. She doesn’t need to know. She needs to find_ him. _She tries to run, but her movements are slow and awkward, like the air is thicker and heavier in this place.  She realizes that she can feel the familiar pull in her soul again, guiding her to where he is._

_The whiteness of her surroundings has temporarily blinded her, but she fumbles anyway, the need to get to the noise driving her on. She stumbles into a hallway--she can barely make out figures passing by, but she is unnoticed. She maneuvers as quickly as she can around obstacles in the way to her target, her frustration rising at her inability to move as quickly as she needs to, and she hears the sound fade as she approaches--Stiles is losing the battle._

_As she moves through the hallway, the space around her seems to compress. It becomes more and more difficult to move, her feet feeling like leaden blocks, moving impossibly slow, her arms pinned down to her side. Three doors down, she finally discovers the location of the wailing. She braces herself for the fight that must be occurring inside. But as she struggles to enter the doorway, she is stunned by the sight._

_Everything is bathed in a cloaking whiteness, except the two figures in front of her. Her husband is lying in a hospital bed, his wrists bathed in a red that hurts her eyes, the contrast of his crimson blood against the neverending white making her stomach churn and flip. His eyes are closed, his breathing labored, his chest covered by an unnatural pair of hands, pressing him down into the bed. There is no fight here. Only a painful surrender._

_The creature’s attention is focused on Stiles’ chest, his eyes alit with ecstasy. Lydia can see light filtering up it’s arms, like it’s coming from out of Stiles and being absorbed into the creature’s veins. What is happening? She tries as hard as she can to move to Stiles, but she can’t get any closer than a few feet from the bed, the space between them extending in front of her like a canyon. She tries to reach out, but her arms can’t reach into the space in front of her. She will never be able to get close enough to stop what is happening._

_“Stiles!” Her voice barely escapes. The sound, like her body, unable to travel through the thickness of the space between them. But the creature must hear her, because it lifts its eyes from Stiles’ chest and focuses on Lydia._

_As the creature takes her in, its grip on Stiles lessens, and she sees Stiles’ eyes flutter and slowly open._

He’s alive.

_Relief floods her--but she also realizes that although he is alive, he may not be for long._

_She opens her mouth to call to him again, and the creature sees her effort and moves quickly. Keeping one hand on Stiles’ chest, he hops swiftly onto the bed and hovers over Stiles, one foot on either side of his body. He looks like an oddly-shaped panther, crouching over his prey. He extends a long-fingered hand to Lydia, pressing through the space, reaching for her mouth. It’s talons are aglow from the light that has filtered from Stiles’ chest, and they seemed to drip with it._

_Lydia looks at Stiles, willing him to move, to throw off the creature, to reach for her. He struggles to turn his head toward her, and his eyes open wide when he locks them with hers. She sees him mouthing a word to her, slowly._

_She looks back to the creature, whose fingers are mere inches from her face. He is leaning toward her, malice in his eyes. She takes in the deepest breath she can manage, and then lets out a scream--a banshee scream with all the focus she can draw from herself._

_She feels the energy leaving her mouth, focusing on the target in front of her as it falls back from her, shrinking and pulling in on itself for protection._

_She is about to push the full scream from herself--using the last of her energy to destroy the creature--when she feels her world shaking and turning. She hears a faint voice, and though it sounds far away, it is coming from directly next to her ear._

_“Lydia….! Lydia….! Wake up! Come on, Lydia!”_

_Suddenly, she feels a sharp pain in her neck and her scream is cut off. She quickly looks to Stiles, his eyes wide with fear. She tries to reach back for him, but the world around her disappears._

 

************************

 

Lydia gasps herself into consciousness, her breaths rapid but shallow. She is reaching out, her hands grasping at the space that a conscious and bleeding Stiles had filled a split-second ago. But that Stiles is gone, replaced by an unconscious one that isn’t looking at her. Instead it is one that lies still on the bed, eyes closed, breathing shallow, with skin that’s pale and gray-tinged.

Lydia reaches out for him and realizes she is being held with strong hands from behind--being held _back_ \--but she can’t stop herself from stretching forward, trying to reach him. The force holding her back slowly loosens, and she collapses across Stiles’ body, and immediately looks to the other side of the bed where the creature had fallen. But the space is empty, the threat has disappeared. She realizes that the hands--Melissa’s, surely--that were holding her back haven’t left her shoulders.

“ _He’s here!_ ” Lydia’s voice is breathless, strained and scratchy, like sandpaper. Her hands move to her throat, wondering at the pain she feels. She hadn’t screamed at the creature that long. Her wonder at the pain is unimportant, though. She’d  wanted to finish off the creature. It should be on the side of the bed where it had fallen.

“Lydia, thank God!” Melissa’s voice calls to her, even and smooth. “Lydia, please. You’re safe.”

“I’m not safe! I almost had him! What in the hell did you do?” Lydia turns to face Melissa to deliver her wrath, and she stops short. Melissa isn’t holding Lydia back. She is across the room at the door. _Scott_ is the one holding her--and he is in his Alpha form. Deaton is standing just behind Scott, holding an empty syringe and breathing heavily. They are all breathing heavily, like they had just finished a great battle.

The room they are in is a disaster. The window to the outside is blown out, all the machines in the room scattered around the floor, the ground covered with broken glass. It looks like the pilot episode of _The Walking Dead_ that Stiles had made her watch.

“Scott? What is going on?”

Scott takes a level breath. His face is serious, his red eyes boring into Lydia’s. “Are you okay?”

Lydia’s brows pull together in confusion as she watches Scott, Deaton, and Melissa all slowly relax and take deep breaths.

“I’m sorry I sedated you earlier. I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have gone behind your back like that, but you needed rest--you were really starting to lose it. But then an hour after we sedated you and put you in another empty room, you went into a fugue state. You got out of bed and started walking through the hospital.”

Lydia blinks in surprise. “Wait--I walked around even though I was sedated?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. You should have been sleeping like the dead, but you got up like it was nothing. Mom tried to pull you back to the room to lay you back down, but you started struggling against her.”

Lydia closes her eyes and remembers what she saw moments ago. The hospital hallway, whited out, walking slowly as if the air was heavier. “It felt like the air had gotten thicker, like my entire body was leaded down.”

“That was me, then.” Melissa interjects. “I was restraining you. You were pulling against me so hard, dragging me. I ended up wrapping my arms around your upper body and using my weight to hold you back.”

“But why?” Lydia scratches out. Her throat is so sore. “Why didn’t you just follow me in fugue state? Why try to stop me?”

Lydia notices Scott and Melissa exchange glances. Melissa slowly walks to the door and opens it, revealing a dark hallway, with light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, emitting sparks. Lydia walks carefully to the doorway to join Melissa, looking down the hallway and seeing more devastation like Stiles’ room.

“What happened?” Lydia’s eyes are wide.

Deaton put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “ _You_ happened. You were screaming from the second you sat up, Lydia. You destroyed nearly the entire floor.”

Lydia looks around the room, realizing that she has caused the damage she was seeing. Then she notices the blood on Melissa’s shirt, that extends from her ear to her collar.

“Oh my god, Mom. I hurt you. Are you okay? Deaton--?”

Melissa interrupts, putting a comforting hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “We’re fine, sweetie. Scott was down the hall and came running, so there isn’t too much damage.” Melissa closed the door and locked it. She saw Lydia’s eyes move to Stiles. “He seems to be fine, too, Lydia. Your scream was directed above him, so he missed the brunt of it, but you took out the window pretty easily. His heart rate is still dropping, though.”

Lydia turns to Scott. “I heard a horrible wailing noise, and I realized it was Stiles. I was trying to get to him but I couldn’t move very well. Then I got to his room and I could barely move at all.”

“Yeah, that was me.” Scott’s red eyes fade, his face returning to his human form. “You rounded the corner into Stiles’ room and I couldn’t hold you back anymore. So I had to change into wolf form to try to keep you from destroying Stiles’ room--did you know that you could harness werewolf strength?”

Lydia shakes off the question, wanting to get to the important details. “Scott. He is _here_.”

“You saw Stiles in your fugue state?”

“Yes, I saw him. He was handcuffed to the bed. But Scott--I mean, the _creature_ is here.”

Deaton steps forward. “You can see it? It’s a physical creature?”

Lydia looks around the room and her scratched voice comes out in a rush. “I don’t see it now, but yes, I saw it.” She gestured to the far side of the bed. “It was right _there_ . It was crouched on top of Stiles with its hands pressed against his chest--it was _killing him_ , Scott. I tried to grab for Stiles, to pull him away, but the air was so thick, I couldn’t reach far enough. Then the thing let go of Stiles and turned to reach for me and I screamed. I was screaming to kill it, but then I was cut off and everything was all wrenched away from me.”

Her emotions are piling on top of each other now, the tears beginning to flow. “Did you wake me up?” She releases a sob at Scott’s nod. “I almost had him, Scott. Send me back, _now_. Sedate me again.”

Scott shakes his head at her. “I can’t.”

Lydia’s eyes steel. “Yes, you can. I’m ready. I know where he is, you don’t have to fight me this time. Just clear everyone out and I will kill that thing and get Stiles back--”

“--Lydia. I _can’t_.” Scott’s voice is low, urgent. His hands gently go to her shoulders, turning her to face him. “You were seizing, and your blood pressure skyrocketed--I could hear it and feel it under my hands. Your scream was dying out and your body was rigid and whatever was happening to you was killing you. Deaton injected you with sevoflurane to wake you up, and we hoped it would get you out of it. Thankfully, it did. If we send you back, the same thing could happen again, and I don’t think your body can take that much trauma again. I won’t be the one to put you in danger.”

“But _Stiles_ \--”

Scott grabs Lydia’s hands gently between his own. “I _know_ , Lydia. He’s still seizing and his heart is weaker. I can hear it. I don’t think he can take much more. But we can’t lose you, too. We’ll never figure out how to defeat this thing without you.”

Lydia knows he is right. But the image of Stiles being pressed into the bed by that creature--his wrists bloodied, his body so small under the distended creature--is seared into her vision.

“Scott, I close my eyes, and Stiles is all I see. He’s so small in that bed and can’t move and that thing is on top of him and I can _see_ it.” Her voice conveys the smallness she feels. She started to really feel the lostness that will inhabit her soul if she can’t get him back. She could feel the scream clawing its way through her body again, the pain keeping her human but the scream fighting for release.

Deaton straightens suddenly. “Tell me, Lydia. Tell me exactly what it looks like.”

Lydia looks at him, her weary eyes searching Deaton’s face for meaning. She feels so off-kilter. Normally she could have solved the pack’s problems while solving complex algorithms with the main part of her brain, but it all feels so fuzzy to her right now. She feels weakened and drained of energy--watching Stiles being attacked has affected her emotionally, of course. But there is also a physical toll being taken on her body. Whatever is happening to him is being passed through their emotional tether and affecting her, too. It is harder to breathe, and her vision is whitening--not blurry, but like a white haze was settling over her. It is affecting her ability to think clearly.

But when she sees Deaton’s eyebrows raise, she straightens her body to match. Like when a complex equation suddenly reveals itself to her, the answer that they had been searching for for days became clear. _Of course_. They had been looking for clues--searching for anything about what was happening to Stiles. Now they had something. Lydia wipes her eyes, takes a couple of deep breaths, and looks at Deaton.

“I’ll do better than that. Give me my tablet.” She sits in the chair, taking her tablet from Melissa who had retrieved it from the floor. She touches the screen a couple of times, and pulls out a stylus from her bag. Her hand flies across the screen, and Deaton leans close.

A minute later, Lydia turns the tablet around to show Scott and Melissa. On it is a crude drawing with a long neck, distended stomach, spindly arms and long, talon-like claws.

Scott squints at the drawing. “ _That’s_ what is attacking Stiles?”

“It doesn’t look like much, Scott. But that’s it.” Lydia turns the tablet back around, staring at the drawing. She feels weak. She feels exhausted, her tie to sanity and reality stretched thin, causing a tightening within her that she wishes she could ignore. Her resolve, however, is strengthened. A resolve for answers.

“Now we get to work figuring out what it is, and how to stop it.”

Scott steps in. “First, we have to get Stiles out of this hospital. We take him back to the clinic. Somewhere we can really help him, and also keep everyone safe.”

“From me.” Lydia added, quietly. “Keep everyone safe from me.”

Melissa opens the door to the room. “This is where I come in. Get your things ready. Scott, call Liam and have him meet us downstairs. You’re leaving here in 15 minutes.”

 

************************  

 

 _Every breath is a struggle. Each pull of oxygen in and released out of his lungs feels like it could be his last. The thought terrifies him. He had worked so hard to gain strength, every memory stolen filling his body with an energy that flowed through him. But the power that had surged through him and filled him so beautifully felt weak inside him now--destroyed with the banshee’s scream. He lays on the floor, barely able to move. She nearly killed him. A few more seconds, and she would have. That_ bitch _._

_It doesn't matter. Once he regulates his breathing, once he finds his stability again, he will continue gathering memories. When he has gathered enough strength (how many memories would he have to take before it killed Stiles? he wondered), he will have enough power to break the dimensional barrier that stands between him and Lydia, and he would kill her once and for all._

_“Leave my wife alone, you piece of shit.” The voice that reaches across the space to him barely registers in his ears, it is so weak. Stiles is near death, and yet he still finds the will to insult him. Self-preservation was never one of his strong suits. Unlike Peter._

_“Your wife??” Peter hates the way his own voice sounds weak. He focuses his energy on making it stronger. The appearance of strength is more important than actual strength--from the sound of the voice on the bed, Stiles wouldn’t be putting up much of a fight from now on. “Wow, Stiles. Your wife. How did you get that *thing* to marry you?”_

_“A thing, Peter? Really? She’s a perfect, stubborn, outrageously smart, incredibly infuriating woman, and reducing her to pathetic name-calling shows how far beneath her you are. If you think she’s not going to try to come back here and finish what she started, you’re fucking crazy.”_

_“You think she loves you that much?”_

_“I know she does.” The voice he hears from the bed is weak, but confident. Peter slowly pulls himself to his feet to face Stiles, his face squinting from the pain._

_“But what are you? You’re a pitiful human, Stiles. You’ve always been a pitiful human. You fight with a baseball bat and a heart of gold, but in a real fight with claws and fangs and magic, you’re absolutely useless. Even now. You’ve been bound to that bed for days now and you haven’t even been able to fight me off.”_

_“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little tied up at the moment.” Stiles gestures to his arms, still bathed in red, raw and bound._

_Peter sneers at him. “Who am I to defend myself? I have a hideous body and spindly arms and legs, and yet here you are--close to_ death _, Stiles--and you’re unable to put up even the slightest of defenses.  In all those years fighting with Scott, fighting with Lydia, you never came up with more to defend yourself than your love and your loyalty? It’s pathetic, is what it is. I’m surprised Scott has actually allowed you to tag along as much as he has. I know his hero complex is like its own planet--but how has he been able to stand letting you be in danger for so long?”_

_“It must be because I’m so pretty.” Stiles spits out._

_“Lydia was supposed to be a part of my pack. But she proved to be an incredible disappointment. And then she actually_ marries _you?” Peter couldn’t hide his disgust. “Perhaps that’s your superpower, Stiles. You’re able to convince supremely powerful beings--an alpha werewolf, a werecoyote, a kitsune, a banshee--that you’re actually worth keeping around. I’m not sure what for--comic relief, probably.”_

 _“That’s what we kept_ you _around all those years for, Peter. You were a joke, too. The only difference is you weren’t in on it.”_

_Suddenly, Peter feels the space around them move and shift. He is standing beside Stiles’ bed one moment, and the next minute, the bed is moving away from him. Something is happening. If history was any indication, the bitch is doing something to try to save Stiles.  As quickly as he can manage, he pulls himself up onto the bed next to Stiles. No matter what, he isn’t going to lose his main source of energy. He knows that Stiles still has power to give him. So many memories, so many feelings to share. Peter isn’t done yet. With any luck, she would figure out how to save Stiles just as he took the last of his life from him. It would be the perfect reunion gift._

_“Get off me, you piece of shit.” The disgust in Stiles’ voice is apparent._

_Peter sneers down at the body below him. But there is a desperation that begins to overtake him. He knows he needs to fill his body with power before the banshee figures out how to save her husband. That bitch is smart enough to figure it out, and she has grown even more powerful. She could kill him with her voice if she got the chance. It would take all of his strength to fight her._

_“I look forward to getting another shot at your wife. A bite to the side isn’t enough for her, is it?” Peter leans down, putting his mouth next to Stiles’ ear. He can see him turn away in a mixture of fear and revulsion. Peter whispers, “I guess I’ll just have to tear her throat out the next time I see her. I’ll give it to you as a belated wedding present.”_

_Peter braces himself in the space between Stiles and the bed rail, and puts his spindly hands on Stiles’ chest again._

_Stiles lifts his head, his voice barely registering, it is so weak. “Please. Please, don’t.”_

_“I want to see, Stiles. I want to know how you got that girl to agree to marry you.” He presses his hands down, ignoring his own pain and focusing his energy on the man below him, focusing on drawing the feelings and the power he wanted for himself. He starts to feel the familiar sensation flooding into his fingers and into his arm, and he smiles a grotesque smile._

_Stiles’ eyes roll back and he groans against the hands that hold him down._

_“I...can’t wait...for my wife….to kill you.”_

 

************************

 

“Drive, Liam!” Scott yells from the passenger seat, his arms bracing against the ceiling and the back of the driver’s seat.

“I’m driving as fast as I can!”

Lydia curls as close as she can get to Stiles, amidst the wires of the heart monitor and the IV lines that are now dripping saline with mistletoe into his system (“It may help him fight the demon off, similar to how it stopped the leak in your mind, Lydia.” Deaton had said.). She is being thrown against and away from him as the ambulance rounds corners, but she doesn’t care. They are getting away from the hospital and to a place where they can fight this thing without risking collateral damage. Lydia has already taken out part of the hospital--they need to go somewhere safer.

Scott has been building up the animal clinic, but had simultaneously built up a defense system for the entire region underneath it. All the resources for the Argent Hunters’ Guild, as well as Scott’s training center and Deaton’s medicinal lab and library--they will be able to research more effectively with all their tools on hand.

Lydia strokes the side of Stiles’ cheek with her hand, the stubble rough against her skin. She traces the lines of his angled jaw, rubbing her thumb along his bottom lip, feeling the dryness there. His lips are always dry. She leans and nuzzles her nose against his cheekbones, the angles feeling sharper than they had previously. How much weight had they lost? How many days had gone by? She doesn’t know the answer anymore.

“Stiles? Listen to me.” She moves her lips next to his ear, speaking quietly, urgently. “I know that thing is hurting you. I know it’s here. But I need you to fight. We’re going to figure out what this thing is, and we’re going to do everything to get rid of it. But I need your help. I can’t do this without you.”

At that moment, Stiles’ head pushes back against his pillow. Lydia grabs his hand, watching the heart monitor, which spikes again.

“Scott! We have to hurry!” Lydia looks back down at Stiles, seeing the pain etched across his forehead. She closes her eyes and focuses on his breathing, feeling his inhales and exhales align with her own. Deep in her soul, she hears a moan and his voice strain out from a distance.

_“I can’t wait...to kill you.”_

 

*********************


	5. A Spirit Abides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You really need to read the other chapters of this story first...otherwise you'll get to the end of this chapter and truly hate me. Well, you'll probably hate me anyway, but that's the way the story goes.
> 
> This chapter really could be its own, standalone 20k chapter. Thanks so much to Sabrina (@stilesssolo on twitter) for helping me to condense the first part so it makes sense.
> 
> Thank you to Rachel (@writergirl8) for beta-reading this chapter for me, and for being the inspiration for Scott and Stiles' interaction (I am truly sorry for being Stiles to you). It is also because of our discussions on one of her fics that the entire story that Stiles writes exists.
> 
> Also--it is very meta to write a story within a story. Y'all should try it sometime.
> 
> I'm sorry this took a few extra days, but I hope the content will make up for it. This was supposed to be 4k...it ended up as 8+, and I don't regret a second. I hope you all like it as much as I do.

 

 

***********************

 

If you knew how much this moment means to me  
And how long I've waited for your touch  
If you knew how happy you are making me  
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much

                 Chantal Kreviazuk, “Feels Like Home”

 

***********************

 

It is her idea.

“I want to do something different this trip.”

They’re sitting on the couch in their apartment, curled next to each other, each looking at their Google calendars on their laptops and coordinating. His second book tour is finishing up with its last stop at The Strand in New York City at the end of August, and her fall semester of teaching at Stanford doesn’t start until the end of September. It’s perfect. She’ll fly cross-country to meet up with him, and they’ll explore the city together.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “You mean, spending the entire trip naked in our hotel room isn’t entertaining enough for you?”

Lydia gives him a look. “Stiles. We have done that in every place we have ever visited. At this point, we’ve been naked in almost all 50 states.”

“I know! We only have 4 more to go, and then I can cross ‘sex with Lydia in every state’ off my bucket list.” Stiles smirks.

“Wait. When did I get added in there? Didn’t it used to be just ‘sex in all 50 States’?”

“Yeah, in college I realized I had a chance to do it with you, so I revised the list.”

Lydia puts her laptop on the coffee table and turns to him. “You know, it seems the only way I can keep clothes _on_ you is if you’re driving.”

Stiles feigns indignation. “That’s not true! I was completely naked across the state of Nebraska when we drove to college together.”

Lydia smiles at the memory. “Yes, I remember. The semi-truck drivers got quite a show.”

“Hey-- _you’re_ the one insisting that my pants kept getting in the way of the view, so it isn’t my fault.”

Lydia takes his laptop from him and places it on the coffee table. She leans into him, curling her arms up into his chest and looking up into his eyes. “ _This_ is my favorite view.”

“Mmm…” Stiles murmurs in agreement, leaning his head down to kiss her.

She sighs into the kiss, the same way she always does, and he knows she’s forgetting her words, forgetting her purpose. He sucks on her bottom lip gently, then dots kisses along her jawline until he takes her earlobe into his mouth.

He hears her shuddered inhale, and her voice comes out next to his ear in a raspy whisper. “Stiles, are you trying to distract me from my attempts to see the outside world of New York City?”

“Mmm….” He buries his nose into the crook of her neck, nipping at the goosebumps that appear there. “Is it working?”

“You know it is.” She angles her neck for him, grasping his shirt in her hands and holding him tight. He smiles into her neck. A lot of their discussions start out this way. He enjoys making her forget what she is talking about. She’s so hyper-focused in so many areas of her life—her work, her research for the pack, keeping her banshee powers in check—that it feels powerful for him to be able to make her forget, even just for a few minutes.

He focuses his attention on his favorite spot just under her ear, moving his tongue over her skin in a gentle motion, loving the little noises she makes in the back of her throat as he kisses her over and over, his fingers making circles on the small of her back. He has just latched on and begun to suck on her when she puts both hands flat on his chest and pushes away, her brow furrowing.

“No, Stiles! The last hickey you gave me there just cleared up, and I don’t want to explain to the math faculty _again_ about what a hickey is.” Her pupils are wide and she’s trying to catch her breath. She keeps her hands on his chest, but her arms locked, holding him away from her so she can think. “We are having a _discussion_ here.”

He smiles to himself. _God_ he loves rattling her like this. His voice is low. “Yes, we are. We are having a discussion.” He covers her hands on his chest with his own, and gently pulls one of them up to his lips, pressing kisses on the pads of her fingertips one at a time. “What are we discussing, Lydia?” After he kisses her thumb, he slowly pulls it between his teeth and closes his lips around it, sucking on it.

She sits upright, her mouth dropping open, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. She’s staring at his mouth, taking deep breaths, and he can tell she’s trying really hard to remember what it was they were talking about.

He decides to take pity on her. He takes her thumb out of his mouth, kisses her palm gently and folds her hands between his under his chin.

“I think you were telling me that you wanted to do something different this trip.” His eyes twinkle at her.

“I don’t know. After that, I’m thinking that staying naked in the hotel is looking better and better.” She leans over and places a sweet kiss on his cheek.

She looks into his eyes, and Stiles’ breath catches. There are yellow flecks that appear in the depths of her green eyes when she’s turned on, and they always take him by surprise. They seem to shift and change with her moods, the goldenrod color—as they appear right now, indicating warmth and comfort-—his favorite. He is continually struck by her ease with him, her comfort, and the fact that even the physiology of her eyes can’t hide her true feelings anymore. He has made her transparent.

Small dimples form at the corners of her mouth as she leans back from him, smiling. He wants to lay kisses on them, but he won’t want to stop, so he holds himself back.

She has a look in her eyes that he’s seen before. It’s the excited look she got in high school when she figured out the answer to the calculus problem before the teacher did. It’s the look she gave him when she was waiting for him to open the authentic lightsaber signed by George Lucas at Christmas. He loves this look, and not just because selfishly, it means incredibly good things for himself. But because it shows him again that no matter how much life tossed their way, she isn’t lost. Her excitement is proof that the banshee side of her--the one that threatens her future and her sanity--isn’t the only thing that has staked a claim on who she is. She’s also young, and a genius, and working her way to a Fields Medal, and changing the world one zeta function at a time. Her sparkle confirms to him that she’s still going to do so.

“I want to plan a full day of the trip. A day of surprises just for you.”

Stiles grins. “Ooh, _yes_. Great idea. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I get to plan a day for you, too.”

“Deal.” They seal the deal with a kiss and that tongue thing that Lydia does that Stiles swears has to be illegal in a few states, but he isn’t going to check, because _damn_.

For weeks, he tries to figure out what she’s planning, using all of his detective-sleuthing methods on her, but there’s no way he is going to out-smart Lydia Martin on this one. She enters “Stiles’ Day” on Thursday in their shared calendar, the day after his tour ends, and won’t give him any hints. She even tells him that she’ll be packing the clothes that he would need _for_ him _after_ he leaves for the tour, so that he won’t have any clues--she knows his propensity for cheating (“It isn’t _cheating_ , Lydia, it is being _prepared_.”).

For his part, the planning’s easy. He’s been considering it for months (but if he thinks about it realistically, _years_ is more appropriate). It takes some computer work, a few phone calls and some coordinating with some of his FBI buddies. But he’s done enough favors over the years. It’s time to cash in on them. He wants to impress Lydia and show her exactly what she means to him. He’s pulling out all the stops.

But _God_ , Lydia is good. She’s really, _really_ good. He knows she’s a genius. But it still surprises him how much of a genius she is _about him_.  

He has spent so much of his life slowly getting to know her--peeling back the layers of her shielded heart slowly and carefully and gently. Exploring her details and her heartaches and her joys, just by being her friend at first. So much of his time had been spent becoming an expert on her--but without his realizing it, she had become an expert on _him_. She had taken his defenses down—seen through the sarcasm and the sardonic wit, the silly jokes and the spastic behavior to see who he was underneath. She was like a wizard, because while it took him ten years to understand her, it took her just a few to understand him.

He wakes up on Friday morning in New York, stupid-happy from Stiles’ Day. Well, it might not actually be _morning_ , he realizes, since they stayed up much too late last night. It started when she woke him up with lazy, morning-breath kisses, followed by room service breakfast in bed (they managed not to get syrup on the sheets, even though he kept “accidentally” spilling it on Lydia’s chest so he could lick it off). They barely made it on time for the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. Stiles was like a kid as he pretended to be Magneto inside Lady Liberty (and he teased Lydia with a joke about being inside two ladies in one day, at which Lydia rolled her eyes). He thought they would head back to Manhattan, but was surprised when they re-boarded the ferry and proceeded to Ellis Island. His eyes widened with astonishment when Lydia pointed out _Tadeus and Ollska Stilinski_ in the passenger records: his great-great-great-grandparents. He spent so much time researching the histories of others while knowing so little of his own. Seeing the names had made him more emotional than he thought he would be.

Lydia was suspiciously giddy as they took the ferry back to Manhattan, her cheer infectious to him. He loved staring at her hair blowing in the warm breeze off the Hudson, her cheeks slightly pink, whether from the warmth or from her excitement, he didn’t know and didn’t really care. He had grabbed his phone and taken a photo, never wanting to forget the way she’d looked in that moment.

While the morning was sentimental, the afternoon and evening were meant to gobsmack Stiles. They returned to the hotel to change, and Lydia had gone to the bathroom. She told him to get the bag of clothes for him to change into—the mysterious clothes she had packed after he left for the trip. The orange and blue patterns on the polyester that hit his vision when he opened the bag were unmistakeable: his Mets jersey and lucky hat. He looked toward the bathroom and Lydia emerged wearing an identical jersey.

He doesn’t remember a lot of the details about the rest of the night. He was in such a daze of happiness and joy...and, well, _fangirling_ . But Lydia assured him she was taking lots of pictures so that he would have a record of every moment. He does know that he will never forget the way she looked when she walked out of that bathroom, her hair falling just over the edges of the script Mets lettering. He will never forget how the grass at Citi Field felt when he touched it ( _okay, he laid down on it_ , he’s not ashamed). He won’t forget how it felt to hit a fastball down the left field line in batting practice. He will never forget how the laces felt under his fingers as he threw the ball to home plate for the first pitch. He won’t be able to live down the tears that he shed during the National Anthem as he stood in the dugout next to the manager. He will never forget meeting the voice of the Mets and making a strikeout call over the airwaves. He will live in the joy of experiencing the game from the second row behind home plate and the walk-off home run that brought a W for his lifelong team. And of course, he will not forget to thank Lydia’s student and his dad who made the whole fan experience possible for him.

He is relishing in the post-Stiles-Day glow. He should probably be worried about some kind of end-of-the-world global event being imminent. After all, his book tour was a grand success, his name is atop the New York Times Bestseller List for the second time, his show is on the “Top Podcasts” list on iTunes, he just had the single greatest day of his entire life, and he is currently blanketed with naked Lydia--regression to the mean is bound to hit sooner rather than later. Just please, _please God_ , don’t let it happen today.

It’s Lydia Day.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches for it carefully, so as not to disturb her. It’s a text message from Xavier at the bureau.

**_Everything is set. Good luck, man. x_ **

Stiles’ heart starts beating wildly, the nerves hitting him like a train. This is happening. It’s really happening. He smiles to himself and absentmindedly trails his fingers up and down Lydia’s spine. He doesn’t want to wake her up, but he’s _so_ ready to get started with this day. He notices the time, and it’s later in the morning than he thought--he’s going to need to get things up and moving if they’re going to make their appointments.

The phone in his hand buzzes again, and he sees the picture of his best friend light up the screen. He smiles to himself and takes the call, sliding gently out from under Lydia on his chest, and padding to the bathroom to talk privately.

“Hey, Scotty. It’s early for you, isn’t it?”

“Hey, Stiles. Yeah, I had an emergency call at the Clinic, so I was out of the house early. I wanted to see how the book tour ended up. Did Lydia get there okay?”

“It was really great, man. My publisher set up some really great visits this time, and the bookstores were all packed. It’s so weird to see my name when I get in the stores, y’know? Lydia got here just fine. She surprised me at my book signing.”

“Nice! Did you enjoy Stiles’ Day?” Scott is the only one that had known all of the details for both of their plans, and he has been giving both of them shit-eating grins for weeks.

“Oh, _dude_.”

“She’s _good_ , isn’t she?” Stiles hears the smile through the phone, and can’t help the one that breaks over his face at the same time.

“It’s fucking insane. How did you keep that a secret from me?”

“It was hard, buddy, but I knew it was going to be worth it for you, so I kept my mouth shut.”

“Thanks, dude, really. It was an amazing day.”

“So…did you _do it_?”

Stiles’ voice drops in volume as he peeks out of the bathroom at Lydia to make sure he isn’t waking her. She has turned over, giving him an incredible view of her naked frame, but she’s still asleep. He ducks back into the bathroom. “Umm...of _course_.”

“And you didn’t call me?”

Stiles’ eyebrows scrunch in confusion. He and Scott are best friends, but they don’t usually discuss his sex life in that much detail. Because, gross. “Umm...I didn’t think you’d want to know about it?”

“Dude, I want to know _every detail_.” Scott’s earnestness can’t be denied, even in a phone call from 3,000 miles away.

“Well, Scotty, okay. You’re my best friend, so I’ll tell you. We got back to the hotel last night and I was a little buzzed from the whole day, but especially from the game. I mean, I threw out the first pitch and everything. The way Lydia set it all up was amazing. Then we went to a bar outside of the stadium and had celebratory daiquiris— _don’t even make fun of me, dude_ —”

“I didn’t say anything!” But Scott can’t hide his laughter.

“Yeah, but you were gonna. Just, shut up. Anyways, we were floating high from the win, and she was looking so hot in that Mets jersey. So we got back to the hotel and we just started making out. Like, the hottest making out we’ve ever had. She left so many hickeys on my neck. I’m so glad my tour is over, because I don’t think I’ll be able to hide them. Plus, dude, she was in a _Mets bra and panties set_. I don’t know how she kept that a secret all day long, I was dying when I saw it, I almost came in my pants like I did that time in college when she came to visit me—”

“— _Stiles_.”

“ _I’m getting there_ ! Anyways, I tore that shit off of her so fast. I’m really glad it didn’t rip, ‘cause I think they’re a good luck charm or something. Anyways, we totally did it while I was still wearing my Mets jersey. _Oh_! And my hat! I didn’t even have a chance to take it off or anything! Lydia does this crazy thing with her tongue that makes me see literal stars. I wish I could describe it right, but I can’t, ‘cause it’s already a little weird that I’m telling you this much, so I’ll just say that it was fucking great. Mind-blowingly great.”

The line is quiet for a beat.

“Scott? Are you still there?”

“ _Dude_. I didn’t want to know about the sex you had.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “What? But...you asked me if we did it.”

“No, I asked if _you_ did it. Like, did you ask her to marry you yet.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Stiles is in the middle of one of the biggest and loudest cities in the world, he’s in a hotel room off of Times Square that allows sounds to filter in every hour of the day and night. But every single noise has been sucked into the vacuum of awkwardness that follows his description of having sex with Lydia in detail to his best friend _without being asked_.

“ _Oh. My. God._ ”

“Yeah.”

Stiles is genuinely shell-shocked. After a moment, he clears his throat. “Well, Scotty, it has been an amazing 20 years of friendship, but I’m afraid it all ends today. I hope you have a wonderful life and an incredible future and I’ll always look back on our friendship with fondness.”

Scott’s chuckling filters through the phone, breaking the silence and Stiles’ unbelievable embarrassment.

“Just...call me after she says yes, okay?”

“Yep. Later.”

Stiles breath whooshes out as he clicks ‘end’ on the phone, and he looks up to see Lydia standing gloriously naked in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and laughter.

“Did you and Scott just break up?”

“I’m never talking to him again.”

Lydia smiles a shy, half-smile up at him, wrapping her arms around his bare waist and burying her nose in the center of his chest. He envelopes her with his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“Never's a long time, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, _never_ 's how long it’ll take me to get over this.” 

“What happened?” Lydia is tracing her nails up and down his back, sending goosebumps racing across his arms, and making his dick twitch in a way that he knows she can feel.

“Oh, just me, making a complete idiot of myself.”

“So, the usual then?” Lydia’s hands squeeze around him, dropping lower to his ass and pulling him close.

The skin-on-skin contact makes his voice waver. “Pretty much, yeah.”

She smiles into his chest, laying kisses there. Stiles feels his heartbeat rising, the weight between his legs getting more noticeable as it presses against her middle, her hips cuddling him instinctively as she holds him close. He breathes into her hair. She leans her head back to look at his face, and he can’t help the laugh that escapes.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You’re so _short_ , Lydia. You look like a toddler looking up at me like that.”

“You _love_ me being this short.”

Stiles grins. “Yes, I do. You’re the perfect height for cosplay as an Ewok. _Oh!_ And you can get the kids’ discount at Claim Jumper!”

“ _No_ , you idiot. It means that this is _much_ easier.”

With that, she drops to her knees, wrapping her small hands around him and taking him in her mouth.

“Oh, holy _fuck_ , Lydia.” Stiles’ brain short-circuits. Practically, he knows that they have places to go, appointments to keep. But goddamn it if he doesn’t care about anything else in the entire fucking universe than the feel of her hot mouth around him like this.

She pulls off of him with a perfectly vicious _popping_ noise and looks up at him.

“Stiles?”

One of his hands is braced against the countertop, the other against the wall, holding himself up. He’s sure his expression is completely wrecked as he looks back down at her. She’s looking at him with a wickedly innocent expression. He knows better, though. What she’s going to do with him isn’t innocent, and he’s _so_ ready for it.

Her breath ghosts over him, through the curly mass of hair, her fingers lightly squeezing, sliding his skin up and down, just enough pressure to drive him crazy.

“It’s Lydia Day. Tell me about it?”

“You expect me to _talk_ right now?” She cocks an eyebrow at him and takes his tip into her mouth, humming affirmation around his head.

“Okay, sure. I was going to surprise you, but I know you don’t like surprises, so I’ll tell you. But, umm...we actually need to leave in less than an hour.” Lydia pulls him all the way into her mouth, and he feels himself tap the back of her throat. He can’t stop the deep moan that interrupts when she tightens her grip around the back of his thighs as she pulls him close. “ _Jesus._ Okay, umm...we are having brunch at Tartine which is this... _ah_ ...this Parisian bistro _._ ..and... _oh fuck, fuck, fuck!..._ and then we are going to get dressed up... _mmm_ ...because we have fr-fr-front-row seats.. _ah_ ...for the Christian Siriano show at f-f- _fuck!_ ...fashion week show tonight.. _oh Jesus, I’m gonna come...I’m..._.”

The inhale that he hears from Lydia pulls on him just right, and she grips tightly to the back of his thighs, digging her nails in, and he swears that his moan can be heard down the hall as he pours into her mouth. He holds the sides of her face, with his fingers threading through her hair. He doesn’t want to let her go, ever. They look at each other, and he gets lost in her eyes. The eyes that had looked at him as a friend for so long, and which now look at him with the self-satisfied smirk of knowing she did good work on the man she loves.

She slowly stands and wraps her arms around his waist again. “Hi.”

“Mmm, yeah hi. Um...I thought you wanted to see New York City?”

“Oh, I do. But I love seeing you like _that_ , so it’s a good start to my day, too. Are we _really_ going to Christian Siriano’s show?”

Stiles smiles at her. Ever the fashionista. “Yes, that’s in the plan. A client of mine works in his office and got us in. But we’re going to miss everything if we don’t get ready now.”

“Okay, I’m going to jump into the shower.”

“Oh, but...you’re so wet already...” He buries his face in her neck, slides his hands around to cup her ass and hoists her up. She laughs and wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and her laugh turns into a loud moan when his fingers trail intentionally into her folds. He sets her down on the countertop and gazes purposefully in her eyes as his fingers work into her.

He loves to watch her come apart like this. He loves the subtle changes that skip across her face as he explores the places in her that make her raw and vulnerable. The eyebrows that rise when his fingers trace the wetness around. The little ‘o’ that her mouth creates when he presses his thumb with just enough pressure against her clit. The intensity in her gaze when he moves against her clit in the patterns he knows she loves. The way her eyes blaze green and gold when he crooks his fingers inside of her, and the way they roll back in her head when he presses against her from the inside. These expressions are fire-branded on his soul. Her shout when she clenches around him, her eyes boring into his, serve to sear the brands fresh against him, and he knows he is forever marked by her.

They laze their way through a shower and getting ready, and to Stiles’ amazement, they actually make it downstairs to the hotel lobby with 5 minutes to spare. A car waits for them outside ( _thank you, Xavier_ ) and takes them to the West Village. Stiles and Lydia snuggle in the back seat, causing them to reminisce about the times they would lean together in the back of Roscoe. But Lydia can’t contain her curiosity about Tartine, and Stiles marvels at her as she decides whether or not to challenge the wait staff by ordering in French.

He feels so at peace. He knows he should be nervous, his knees bouncing up and down, his fingers fiddling with the buttons on the windows. But something about being here in this moment, about being close to Lydia in this place and in this time, has settled something inside of him. Lydia, for once, is the one buzzing, about the city and the sights and the smells and the libraries and the history and the science research and discoveries happening all around them, and all Stiles wants to do is sit with his arms around her, smiling at her excitement and living in the calm he feels about everything right now. There’s a surety that has come from the life he has built with Lydia; a concreteness that gives him a sense of home that he hasn’t felt since his mom died. He knows his place is with Lydia.

Through the car window, he notices the telltale red brick buildings of the West Side begin to crowd the streets and narrow them, and soon enough, the driver pulls over. Lydia’s eyes narrow a bit as she looks out of the windows. “Umm…I don’t see Tartine.”

“It’s around the corner. There’s another place I want to show you first.” He steps out of the car and extends his hand to help her out of the back seat. “We wanted to put this place on the book tour, but it was too small for the events that they wanted me to do. But...I thought maybe you’d like to see it anyway.”

They stand on the corner, looking up at the quaint little bookshop in front of them. Golden lettering projects out against the black paint.

“Three Lives & Company,” she reads aloud. The red awnings and the big picture windows call out to them, and Stiles loves the reverent _oooh_ he hears her whisper under her breath as she gets close to the glass to see the warm window displays. He knew she’d love it.

“I see your new book!”

“Oh, she said they’d stock it here even though I wasn’t doing an event. Want to go in?”

“Of _course_.”

Lydia has a tradition of going into every bookstore they come across, large and small, to find his books. When his first book was released, it was always tucked deep in the Crime section, if it was there at all. She would stalk the shelves, dismissing the store’s book displayer as having “a terrible taste in literature, obviously”, and lovingly turn all of the copies of Stiles’ book so that they could be seen easily. Once, they had been asked to leave a Barnes and Noble after she had carried a few copies of his book up to the Best Sellers table and started rearranging her own display with his books front-and-center (“ _His books are going to be here someday, anyway. May as well get a start on the hottest new author in crime,”_ she had said to the disgruntled manager). As his popularity grew, the displays and store placements were more Lydia-approved, but she still liked to go and arrange them whenever they came across a new store.

They walk hand-in-hand to the corner where the blinds are shut and a “closed” sign hangs on the door.

“Oh no! They don’t open for another hour!” Lydia pouts.

“Hold on, I think I see someone,” Stiles counters.

“You can see someone through the blinds? Has the sun powered you enough so that you have developed X-ray vision?”

“First, nice work with the Superman reference! High five! Second, that’d be _amazing_. I’d always be able to see you naked!” Lydia rolls her eyes at him as he knocks on the door.

“Let’s go eat. We can come back!” Just as she finishes, the door swings open to reveal a friendly, middle-aged woman. When she sees Stiles, she smiles warmly.

“Mr. Stilinski! Nice to finally meet you. Come on in.” She holds the door open, and Stiles turns back to Lydia, who is standing just behind him with her mouth slightly ajar. He waggles his eyebrows at her and holds his hand out for her to take.

“Welcome to Three Lives and Company. My name is Carole. I’m so glad you could stop in while you are in town. Have a look around, and let me know if I can help you in any way.”

Lydia steps in front of Stiles, extending her hand for a handshake. “Thank you, Carole. Can you tell me where the Crime section is?”

“Of course. Down the far left aisle there. We also have your most recent book displayed here on our Best Sellers table, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Thanks, Carole.” Stiles shakes her hand as well, and she nods at him, smiles, and disappears behind the counter.

Lydia turns to Stiles, “You know I’m going to want to stay here all day, right?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you. I figured seeing Christian Siriano later would be enough to get you out of here.”

“Christian Siriano who?” Lydia smiles before leading him by the hand to the Crime section.

He follows behind her, his heart rate speeding up slightly, but the warmth of her hand in his keeps his breathing under control. She rounds the last set of shelves and releases his hand to trail her fingers along the spines and book faces, looking for the S’s.

“Larsson...Perry...Seeley, _here!_ Stilinski. Oh, this place is excellent. Your current book is here, _and_ facing out so everyone can see it. Well done, Three Lives. But your first book isn’t, so let me fix that.”

She starts pulling books off of the shelf, rearranging them, turning some other titles with spines out so as to make room for Stiles’ books, when she suddenly stills her movements.

“What’s this one?” She pulls a book off the shelf that’s stacked between his other books. It’s a lone copy, tall and thick, with a white cover and black lettering. She reads aloud, “‘The Princess in the Tower, A Children’s Story. Written by Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski. Illustrated by Lydia Martin.’ Stiles, what is this?”

“It’s my newest book. My first attempt at a children’s story. But it’s one-of-a-kind, so take good care of this one.”

Surprise flitters across Lydia’s face. “I didn’t know you were writing a children’s book! Can I read it?”

“Of course. You’re the first one to read all of my books, may as well keep the tradition alive. I left the pages blank—I thought you could draw the pictures. You probably know the ending to this story, though, since you wrote it with me. ”

“I did?” Lydia shoots him a confused look before carrying the book to one of the leather chairs and sitting down gently. Stiles places himself comfortably on the armrest next to her. His arm rests on the back of the chair and his fingers play with the bottom of her curls.

She starts to open the book and then looks up at him in wonder. “I can’t believe you wrote a children’s book. Please tell me you left out some of the more frightening aspects of your demon-fighting experiences?”

“This one’s pure fairytale, don’t worry.”

Lydia turns back to the book, opening it reverently. She smiles at the dedication in the front. “To Lydia, who makes all of my dreams come true. And to my dad, who told me I was a hero.” Her fingers gently trail over the words, feeling the press of the print on the page against her fingertips. She breathes in and out, smiling at him over her shoulder before reading the book out loud.

_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. But she wasn’t helpless or weak like a lot of princesses are in these kinds of stories. No, she was smart and brave and understood how the world worked better than a lot of people. She knew that if the people of her kingdom thought of her as beautiful, and married a strong and handsome prince, then they would consider her a good princess, and would follow her rule. So she kept herself beautiful, and pretended not to be smart so that the people of the kingdom would follow her. But on the inside, she secretly desired more: a strong and courageous knight, someone smart like she was and brave like she was._

_When she was young, she was bitten by a dragon who lived in her kingdom. The dragon had been kind to her when she was a child, but one day, as wild creatures often do, it turned on her and hurt her. She healed, but she had a scar. And the princess knew, if she was going to keep herself safe from dragons, she needed to protect herself. So she built herself a tower. She was smart. Smarter than anyone else in the kingdom, and so she built the best and strongest and most stalwart tower in the land. No dragons could break through the tower. She was safe and protected._

_There were many people who lived in her kingdom, and all of them wanted to claim the princess as their friend. The most persistent was the court jester, who always gave the princess his attention from beyond her walls. He would yell at the tower and proclaim her smartness to the people of the kingdom. But he was just a silly jester, and everyone laughed at him. And the princess ignored the jester, because he was certainly not the strong and handsome prince that would help her to lead her kingdom, nor was he the brave and courageous knight that her heart desired. He was a silly fool, and even though he made her laugh, she thought nothing of him._

_One day, a handsome prince, who was loved by everyone in the kingdom, came to visit the princess. She was charmed by his good looks and his beautiful horse, so she opened the small door she had made in the tower so he could come in. He was sweet and kind to the princess for a while, but eventually she displeased him (she couldn’t really say the reason), and he blew fire at her and singed her skin--he was a dragon in disguise! She knew that even though she needed a handsome prince, she could not live with someone who hurt her. So she shut him out of the tower and locked the door behind him, swearing never to let anyone in again._

_Time passed, and people forgot about the smart and brave princess. The handsome prince had told everyone that she was ugly, and silly, and she grew sad because people believed him. No one knew who she really was, because no one could really see her. The princess remembered the pain from the dragons, and she could feel the scars that they had given her. She was afraid of getting hurt again, so she didn’t let anyone in. But she was lonely. Very lonely._

_One day, a new girl moved into the kingdom. The princess watched the new girl through a small window. The new girl was different than the other girls. This girl was strong and brave and smart, just like the princess. And the princess knew that the new girl was not a dragon who would hurt her. She was good and kind and honest. And so, the princess decided once again to open the small door in her tower, and she invited the new girl to visit and play. They quickly became best friends. The new girl saw the princess for who she really was. The new girl knew she was a strong, beautiful, smart princess and convinced the princess that no matter what dragons may lurk in her kingdom, she shouldn’t have to live in the tower all by herself._

_The new girl showed the princess how she could start to take down the tower. Because smart, strong girls don’t need a tower to do protect themselves from dragons, they can protect themselves. And so, the new girl and the court jester, always close by, helped her slowly take down the stones that she had used to so solidly and strongly build the tower around herself. The princess began to take notice of the jester, calling him and the new girl her only friends. They saw the real princess for who she was on the inside._

_One day, quite unexpectedly, when one wall of the tower was almost completely taken down, a dragon unlike any dragon ever seen in the land came sneaking up on the tower. It attacked the people of the kingdom, and the princess, and her new friends. It slashed with its claws and blew fire and smoke. And when the dragon finished its work, the princess was astonished to see that the dragon had taken her best friend away forever._

_She was heartbroken. She had lowered the walls of her tower, what she had built to protect herself, and a dragon had come in and taken her friend away forever. The jester, who had been her friend, was so hurt by the dragon himself, that he stayed away from the princess, so she felt lonelier than ever._

_But, even after so much pain, the princess decided not to rebuild the tower walls that she had taken down. She had learned from her friend that she shouldn’t try to shut herself in a tower for protection. The people of the kingdom were pleased when they could see the princess again. Some of the people in the kingdom even ventured close to the princess and became her friends. And slowly, as the wounds from the dragon healed, the jester returned to befriend the princess again._

_He had told everyone about how smart she was. But now he told everyone how strong she was, and how kind she was. Soon, the jester became the best friend of the princess. And slowly, he helped to remove the last of the stones from her tower. He didn’t do it to make her weak. He did it to show the rest of the kingdom how smart and how strong she was. And he did it to show the princess herself those things, too._

_One day, the princess looked at the jester and realized that he wasn’t just her best friend. She realized she also loved him. She didn’t need someone who looked like a knight. The jester treated her like a knight would, and that was enough for the princess. As she looked at the jester, she noticed that his jester’s costume looked a little strange, like it suddenly didn’t fit right. Curious, she pulled on the sleeve of the costume, and to her astonishment, the costume peeled away to reveal a suit of armor. He was actually a knight in disguise!_

Stiles pulls the book gently from Lydia’s hands, sliding his finger in the page to hold the place.

“Stiles! I’m almost done!” She protests.

He looks at her with gentleness in his eyes as he kneels in front of her on the floor. Her knees bump up against his middle and he leans into her. “I know, but I want to read the last part of the story _to_ you.”

Lydia’s expression softens. “Okay.”

Stiles opens the book, clears his throat and continues where she had left off.

_The jester, who had given the princess attention longer than anyone else, and had noticed her smartness even when everyone made fun of him, stood in shock before her. He didn’t know that his true self was a knight. It was only revealed when someone saw through the jokes and the silliness to the person he was on the inside, and loved him for it. The jester bowed before the princess. He told her that even though he was a lowly jester, he would love her for the rest of his life, because she had shown him what it meant to be brave and strong and a true leader. The princess knew that she would be a stronger and braver and kinder leader because of the love of her knight, whose shining armor protected her heart._

_They promised to stay together forever, keeping each other safe, no matter what dragons they encountered in the kingdom. And they lived happily ever after.”_ Stiles pulls a ribbon at the back of the book, and a small pocket in the back cover slides open to reveal a thin box. He pulls it gently from the back of the book and holds it in his hand. He places the book on the floor next to where he is kneeling.

Lydia’s eyes open a little wider, her tongue darting out to nervously wet her bottom lip, the corners of her mouth upturning.

Stiles takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “I know I’m the one with the words. I say thousands of them every day and you’ve always let me ramble on and on about whatever nonsense I have in my brain at the time, kinda like now, actually. And I don’t know how you aren’t sick of hearing me talk yet, but I’m so glad that you aren’t.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand so he can steady his thinking, before bringing his hands to rest on Lydia’s knees.

“Did you know you hooked me the day I brought you that butterfly in Kindergarten and you ignored me? Do you remember that? You ignored me through Junior High when I was way too hyper, which was a smart choice on your part, by the way. And then in high school, I got the nerve to actually tell you that I thought we had an unspoken connection, even though we hadn’t spoken since third grade. And you ignored me again, which is a theme.”

Lydia smiles a half-smile at his memories, placing her hands around his gently, tracing circles on his palm with her fingers. She gazes into his eyes, lovingly urging him to continue.

“But somewhere along the line, you stopped ignoring me. I’m still trying to work out the details of exactly how that happened, and why you chose to love me, and I’m happy to spend the rest of my life figuring it out. I have a million more words I want to say, a million that I should say, but the only words I _need_ to say are that you make me feel like I’m home, Lydia. _You_ are my home. I’ve loved you my whole life, and I don’t want to wait a minute longer to love you for the rest of it.”

Images of his past selves flash through his brain--grass-stained knees third grade Stiles, middle school big feet Stiles, awkward movements and sarcastic high school Stiles--all watching him with their thumbs up, cheering. He feels like bursting with joy, but also supremely calm for one of the few times in his life. He breathes the space around them, quietly taking in the light that dances across her face, the sun as it catches her hair and makes the strands glow, the way her eyes seem to be a deeper green than he has seen before. He sees her mouth twitch into a broad smile, and he can’t help but match it. She’s looking at him with expectancy. Of course she knows what’s coming next. She _is_ a genius, after all.

“Will you marry me?”

Lydia brings her hands up to his face, stroking his cheek with her thumbs. “Yes.”

A whispered _oh my God_ escapes his lips, but is cut off by her kiss, so tender. They lean their foreheads together and breathe in the joy and the peace of the moment. Suddenly, Stiles pulls back, remembering the box in his hand.

“You didn’t even see the ring yet! Scotty helped pick it out.” His hands fumble slightly with the box as he opens it to reveal a stunning vintage diamond engagement ring.

“ _Wow_. Scott helped you pick this?”

“Yep. He’s surprisingly good at helping. Though, only one store clerk thought that he was buying the ring for me, so that’s disappointing.”

He lifts it from the box and slides it onto her finger.

“Dad left his pension to me with a note in his will telling me to ‘finally put a ring on it’. He knew we would do this someday. Do you really like it?”

“I _love_ it. It’s perfect.”

She squeezes his fingers gently, and guides his chin up to look at her.

“I feel like if we are going to start our lives together in the right way, we have to be honest with each other. So there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh no, what is it?”

“I know about what you said Sophomore year. About there being an unspoken connection between us.”

“ _What?_ You _heard_ that?”

“Well, technically no. But I’ve been able to read lips since I was in Junior High, so I read your lips.”

Stiles is sure his mouth is gaping open. He shakes his head clear. “Wha--? How have I never known this?”

“Well, reading lips is a surprisingly helpful tool. How do you think I got to be the most popular girl in Junior High? _I knew everyone’s_ _secrets_.” She waggled her eyebrows and he laughed.

“You are so... Oh, we’re going to have _so_ much fun with that little skill. You know you’re marrying an investigative journalist, right?”

“I also know you told Scott about our sex life this morning.”

He choked a little on his own spit. “What? Do you have super _hearing_ , too?”

“Not that I know of. But you were being _very_ loud. Let’s call him so you two can make up, okay? I won’t have our best man be too embarrassed to come to our wedding.”

Stiles wraps her in his arms, kissing her hair and smiling into her scalp. “You’re right. We can’t let sex tear Scott and I apart. Let’s call him together and tell him I’m leaving him for you, okay?"

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

****************************

 

“Scott. I think he’s going into asystole.” Lydia’s voice is deceptively calm. 

“What? That can’t be right.”

She stands next Stiles’ bed, which has been brought into the basement of the Clinic. He’s hooked up to all of the hospital equipment, thanks to Melissa’s guidance, and his heart monitor is terrifying her. In his previous states, the needle points had spiked and dashed up and down wildly on the EKG monitor. But for the last hour, they have slowly faded into minor pricks. Lydia holds Stiles’ hand, feeling its coldness against the heat of her own, trying to will a warmth back through his veins. Will his heart to beat strong again, to fight off the attack.

To return home to her.

The spaces between the beeps on the monitor and the upward ticks of the needle monitoring Stiles’ heartbeat have spread further and further apart over the last hour, and Lydia feels like each time she waits for another beep, her own heart stops beating. Over and over, the monitor tick jumpstarts her, and she finds herself wondering if her own heartbeat will cease the same moment as his does. If the bond between them, once broken on his end, will snap back to her heart rendering it incapable of functioning on its own.

She had always loved the poignancy of Allie and Noah’s final scenes in _The Notebook_. She romantically imagined she and Stiles dying one day in a similar way, when they were old in their beds, after fighting many battles together and surviving with each other the way they always did. But this isn’t romantic. It’s brutal to watch and causes a desperation in her she can’t hold back. It’s her own notebook being ripped out of her hands before she’s even finished writing it.

The line on the monitor straightens out, the beep sounding once...twice...and then...nothing.

 

************************


	6. A Spirit Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 90% of this chapter was written at 35k feet on a flight from LAX to Charlotte with a 2 year old's stinky feet in my lap. You're welcome, world.
> 
> Thanks to Jen for reading this over for me. And for turning me on with her compliments. You may not be the only one with a praise kink, lady.
> 
> Thanks also to Sabrina (@stilesssolo on twitter) for helping me work through my nonsense. You're a gem, babe.

 

 

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Escape me?  
Never—  
Beloved!  
While I am I, and you are you,  
So long as the world contains us both,  
Me the loving and you the loth,  
While the one eludes, must the other pursue.

                               “Life in a Love”, by Robert Browning

 

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 _The air is heavier here._ Everything _is heavier here. Problem is, he isn’t sure where ‘here’ is. The blackness surrounding him_ — _the nullity_ — _is oppressive, squeezing him from all sides until he is sure the very breath within him will not be able to escape. His eyes could be open or closed, he isn’t sure because of the nothingness that oppresses him from all angles, inside and outside of his body. Whether he’s alive or dead is uncertain._

_He tries to think of what existed before the darkness. His memory struggles to function through the pressure, thought itself moving as slowly as a trawler through ice. He remembers proposing to Lydia. He remembers joining with her to call Scott. He remembers a horrible, engulfing tightening in his chest and then...he remembers nothing. It was joy and peace and excruciating pain and emptiness, one after another, so rapidly; the tablecloth of his memories yanked from underneath him, and he is left standing._

_He wracks his brain for answers until it hurts with the effort. Futility is the only thing he finds, the darkness and the weight forcing his submission. There are no answers here, only emptiness. So instead, he focuses on before. He trolls his memories for information, for the bits and pieces that slowly crawl back into his consciousness, appearing like ghosts in the darkness. Before calling Scott. Before proposing to Lydia. Before Stiles’ Day. Before, before,_ before…

 _It’s then that he remembers._ The creature. _Hands, claws, dripping energy flowing from him and into...Peter. Peter had been killing him. Peter had succeeded._

_So this is it, then. This is what death feels like._

_There’s another memory that comes to him in that moment, one of rapid breaths and racing heart, of vertigo and stumbling limbs; the memory of panic attacks. He’s aware that this moment should be inducing one. But he finds that panic cannot take hold in his breaths or in his heart—because, he realizes with shock, his breathing and his heartbeats seem to have disappeared entirely. Now that he is cognizant of it, he realizes the absence of everything physical. Where he thought his sight was blinded because of darkness, he now notes that perhaps he cannot see because his eyes are gone. Perhaps he cannot hear because his ears are no more. No face, no body, no limbs. His physical form has been eliminated entirely, and all he is left with is_ thought _._

 _But while it seems Peter has destroyed his body, his brain is the one part that has yet to be destroyed. The part of him that is the strongest and the most resilient is the last to go._ I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones _...he remembers. His brain is slow to catch up on the fact that he has lost this battle. Well, his brain always has been slow to pick up on lost causes. Falling in love with Lydia being the prime example._

_He knows he should be scared. How many are cognizant of their deaths? But as he thinks of Lydia, all he can feel is a sense of calm easing through him._

Lydia.

_God, he loves her. Every gesture, every look. Every thought she has is perfect to him. She isn’t perfect, of course; her disastrous abilities in the kitchen are proof of that. But love makes people stupid, and Stiles is well aware of how incredibly stupid Lydia makes him. He’s been aware of it for a long time. The consternated look in her eyes when he teases her with nonsensical arguments. The way her cares melt away when he massages her feet in a bubble bath they share together. The way her eyes light up when she’s discussing her work and the fire that develops in them when they argue. Her propensity for stubbornness and unyielding accuracy. He loves her strengths and her weaknesses. He has been in awe of her forever, it seems only right that his last thoughts be consumed by her, as well._

_He still hears her voice in his memories. The raspy tone that has narrated his dreams for so long. Her words were always thoughtful and planned out, such a contrast to his own rambling nonsense. She could shut him up or send him into a rambling mess with just a word or a sigh. Her voice was a weapon, and when she exercised it, powerful things happened._

_He would never assume to have made Lydia into the singularly powerful woman she had become. If he had never existed, he knows that she would have figured out how to become that woman without him. But he held neverending awe at being the first person to recognize her voice. Being the person who encouraged her to use it, not just as a banshee, but also as an instrument of her own influence._

Don’t start doubting yourself now _…_

_The weight around him seemed to be growing heavier, the thoughts harder to gather, harder to define. The edges of the memories getting fuzzier around the edges. He decides to simplify it for himself. If he is going to die, he is going to do it thinking of the truth that has given him life since he was eighteen._

I didn’t say it back…  
You don’t have to...

  

**********************

 

Scott stands, frozen, in the spot next to Stiles’ bed. He should _do_ something. Find some cure, some treatment. Use his medical experience and his supernatural expertise to change things. But he can’t. Instead, his eyes are locked onto Stiles’ chest, searching for life where none exists. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here. He does know, by the unmoving EKG line, and the steady beep of the monitor, that his best friend, his _brother_ , is dead.

He should’ve done something. Put Lydia back under. Put himself under. Given Stiles the bite. Maybe. He’ll spend the rest of his life wondering.

_“You’ve still got me.”_

He’s felt loss before. Too many times. His father. His first love. He has said goodbye to pack mates and second loves and family. He knows loss.

But this? This is something he doesn’t know.

This is a lostness. It’s being adrift in strange waters with no sight of the shore.

 _What do I do in a world without Stiles?_ he wonders. They’ve been friends since the sandbox in preschool. Scott literally can’t remember life without him. Stiles is wrapped around every experience and every momentous occasion worth remembering in his entire life.

_“Be a werewolf, not a teen wolf. Be a werewolf.”_

Scott knows his flaw of only seeing the good in people is balanced well by Stiles’ skepticism and untrusting nature. Scott’s been his own anchor for years, but Stiles has always been his anchor on humanity. He epitomizes the muddiness that comes along with being a human—that not all choices are black and white, good and bad. Sometimes their choices are gray, sometimes they involve blurred lines and guilty hands—it’s the humanity that surrounds the supernatural choices they have made nearly every day since that day in the woods when Scott was bitten. Stiles grounds him to that world, and brings a balance that would otherwise be missing from the pack.

_“I seriously don’t understand how you survive without me sometimes.”_

What is he supposed to do now? He has no answers. So he stands there.

Staring.

“ _Move_ , Scott!” Lydia’s urgent voice breaks him out of his trance. He turns to see her running toward Stiles’ bed, Deaton trailing her, a needle in her hand. It takes him a moment to register what is happening, but when he does, he grabs Lydia’s arm in shock, stopping her short.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Saving his life, Scott.”

“ _What_ ? He’s _dead_ , Lydia.”

Lydia roughly pulls her arm out of his grasp and looks at him. He notices the fire in her gaze, the determination and intensity lighting up her features.

“This is epinephrine. It’s the only thing that will work. It needs to be injected it into his IV. Right _now_.”

“But what about using the charge paddles?”

“ _That won’t work_ , Scott. His heart slowed down and stopped. Adrenaline is the only thing that will work. Trust me.”

Scott looks helplessly past Lydia to Deaton, who has caught up. “She’s right. It only works 3% of the time. But it’s the only chance we have.”

Lydia shoves the needle into his hand. “ _Hurry_ , Scott. He’s only been out a minute, but that’s already too long. You have to do it now.” She moves to Scott’s side, pulling the hospital gown up Stiles’ arm, revealing the injection port. “Scott! _Do it now!_ ”

A small flicker of possibility shines through Scott’s haze. He quickly turns to Stiles’ lifeless body. Uncapping the syringe quickly, he slides the needle into the port and plunges the liquid forward.

_“This newfound heroism is making me very attracted to you.”_

Scott takes a step back, grabbing Lydia’s hand in his own. The trio wait, their breaths bated as they listen to the long beep of the machine, the line stretching flat on the monitor. Scott hears the pounding hearts next to him, his own rapid beat keeping time with theirs.

 _“You’re not no one. You’re my best friend, okay? And I_ need _you.”_

The steady noise continues from the monitor, no change in Stiles’ breathing. He sees Deaton’s head drop in defeat, Lydia’s sorrowed _no_ quietly whispered next to him. Scott feels like his heart will burst from his chest at any moment. Intensity rushes through him like water bursting through a faulty dam. It wrecks the containment he had on his emotions, destroying the confidence in a medical miracle for the one person he hasn’t lived without for his entire life. His emotions burgeon and swell until he can’t contain them anymore, and he erupts with a long, mournful howl.

_“Scott, you’re my brother.”_

The howl reverberates around the room, bouncing off of walls and rattling the small windows at the top of the room. Vials and bottles on surfaces and tables bounce and jump in their places, sending a couple of them crashing to the floor with the force. The long beep on the monitor suddenly cuts off. A silence descends upon the space, stretching on and on, dragging any hope with it.

And then.

A needlepoint spike erupts on the heart monitor, drawing all three sets of eyes, and a repetitive beep follows. Scott’s breath catches in his throat as he watches it, the heartbeat establishing a steady rhythm again, Stiles’ chest rising and falling again in a stable, comforting manner.

Scott looks at Lydia, a grin breaking on his face. Her hands fly to her mouth, catching a sob there, and she collapses into his chest. He gathers her in his arms, holding her close as she cries against him. He holds her for a few moments, gathering himself before he can form a thought.

“ _Wow_ , Lydia. How did you know to do that? That was unbelievable.”

Deaton pipes up. “He’s not out of the woods yet. His heart rate is steady and strong right now, but over time it will get weaker unless we figure out what to do. He won’t survive if his heart stops again. And...”

Deaton’s voice drops into silence. Curious, Scott looks over Lydia’s head to where he is standing. He’s looking with concern at Lydia, wanting to say something, but obviously not wanting her to hear.

“I know, Alan.” Lydia’s voice is muffled against Scott’s chest. She pulls away and looks over at him, wiping her eyes at the same time. “I knew the risks. It’s okay.”

Scott looks between the two of them, confused. “What? What is it?”

Lydia pulls in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Stiles was gone for over a minute. We had to restart his heart.”

“Which means…?”

“Which means, adrenaline is an imperfect agent.” Lydia spoke almost robotically. “It may have done more harm than good. Four out of five people who receive adrenaline to restart their heart end up with significant damage to their brain function.”

Scott blinked incredulously. It would seem out of place for someone’s wife to deliver this information in such a way, but Scott knows it is Lydia’s way of distancing herself from the emotion of what has happened. Shove the facts into the right side of her brain, deliver it clinically. But for Scott, hearing these words is a punch directly to the gut. His breath is stolen and he fairly stumbles away from her words.

“So, we brought him back—but he may not be Stiles if he wakes up?”

Lydia blinks a few times, then straightens her shoulders, seeming to gather her resolve. “That’s a possibility, yes.”

The image of Claudia in a bed at the hospital invades Scott’s memory, unwarranted. He was young then, and they only visited the hospital once, but he remembers her nonsensical words and erratic actions clearly, the fear of his best friend succumbing to the same fate in the forefront of his mind all these years.

He looks down at Stiles’ body, and the fear he has in his heart chokes out of him. “He never wanted to end up like Claudia. And now you’re saying that he may come back like her, or even worse? He would never have wanted that, Lydia.”

“I _know_ , Scott. But what should I have done? _Nothing?_ ”

The defensive tone in Lydia’s voice doesn’t escape Scott’s notice, and he winces against her words. Not 5 minutes ago, he would have done anything to save Stiles. But the thought of him coming back as someone else, or not coming back at all, makes him feel sick.

Lydia’s tone changes to a more pleading one. “This gives us more _time_ . Time to figure out what that creature is. Time to figure out how to _save_ him. If I did nothing, we’d be discussing funeral arrangements, not possibilities. We’ll deal with the consequences later.”

Deaton clears his throat. “We have to remember that there are essentially two Stiles’ right now: a physical one that is here in the room with us, and a spiritual one that is with the creature. It is safe to assume that the two are connected, since his physical body is reflecting the torture being placed on him by the creature in the spiritual realm. Stiles’ spirit is strong. It should be able to endure so much more than his physical body can handle.”

A small boy in an ill-fitting suit appears in Scott’s mind. He’s holding flowers at a gravesite as people file away. He sees that same boy packing lunches, making dinners, becoming a grown-up in a kid’s body while his dad drinks in another room. Scott knows better than anyone about Stiles’ strength. “Stiles’ power has always been in his heart and in his mind. If there’s a battle that he can fight better than most, it’s a spiritual one.”

Deaton nods his head in agreement. “We just have to hope he holds on until we can get to him. If his physical body wears out before we can connect his spirit, he’ll be left in limbo in the spiritual world, perhaps with no way of getting back.”

Scott tries to wrap his brain around the scenario Deaton is describing. “So, he’d be a ghost?” He doesn’t try to hide his incredulity. He’s seen so much in his years as a werewolf, but he still manages to be surprised at the possibilities that exist. It’s hard to imagine a time when something as ridiculous as a ghost was well within the realm of possibility.

Deaton nods again. “He’d become a permanent part of the Spirit World, yes. Whether or not he becomes an earth-bound spirit, like a ghost, is something that I can’t answer.”

Scott hesitates to ask the question in his mind, but he needs to know. “So, what happens if the creature kills his spirit?”

Lydia responds, her voice clinical. “If he dies in the spiritual realm, his body will exist as a shell. We’ll never get him back.”

 

***********************

 

_There are faded sounds all around him. Movement, yelling, all of it blurring in his periphery. He doesn’t take note of the people, the place. He doesn’t care about the reason for their noise. The only sound he wants to hear is the breathing from the body beneath him. But it is silent._

_Peter feels his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the blood pumping the fury he feels through his veins. He notes the fringes of his vision blurring red, the tension in his muscles and bones tightening as the moments pass and the anger overtakes him. He climbs off of the body, slowly easing himself onto the floor._

_He wasn’t done. He had more power to take, and the pathetic human beneath him gave out before he could gather enough strength. The human had fed him well_ — _he is fuller than he was when he arrived_ — _but he still hungers. His stomach churns with need. The need for power._

_He had been so close! The energy had been flowing through his veins. The power plumping up his muscles and his bones. He felt a change in his spiritual body, becoming more physical, more capable of fighting again. Stealing Stiles’ memories—human memories, so full of exquisite pain, so many devastating lows—had been so delicious, so life-giving. Perhaps he should have gathered the memories slower, taken more time. But as it always had, power made him greedy, and he wanted it all. And he wanted it now. So he took it all. He wrenched the door to Stiles’ memories wide open, taking the grief and the pain and the heartache in large gulps, like oxygen for the fire of his revenge._

_And then Stiles had given out. And the line connecting him to power was gone._

_With fury, he releases the human’s wrists, bloodied and sullied, from the bonds he had placed on them. They fall from his grasp, the lifeless limbs tumbling over the sides of the bed and hanging limply.  The blood that falls from his wrists slowly making droplets on the floor, evidence of the human’s pathetic attempts to escape._

_There had been a vision of power and glory, of redemption and revenge, and it’s lost now. He’s aware he can probably find another human to feed on, but the justice of exacting his revenge on this particular human_ — _on_ Stiles— _and on his friends is gone, and it infuriates him._

_The anger, boiling beneath the surface of his weakened body, builds and expands until it erupts within him. He lets out a primal scream, putting his hands under Stiles’ body and shoving with the small amount of strength he has, rolling the body nearly off the bed.  Peter wishes to pick him up. Wishes to toss the body into the garbage for the use he had been, but his minimal strength only allows the pitiful attempt._

_He’ll have to start again. Work his way up to power so he can completely enter the physical world again. When he’s strong enough, he can take down the McCall pack. Granted, the poetic justice of delivering a dead body of Stiles to his wife won’t be there anymore, but he still can’t wait to see the look on the bitch’s face when she realizes that_ he _is the one who caused Stiles’ death._

_It will be worth it._

_He isn’t sure where he is now, but he’ll find another human spirit to feed on soon enough. He turns away from the body to leave, and falls to the ground, his distended belly brushing the floor, his spindly knees crashing into the hard ground. He cries out in pain. His legs are weak, the last memory that he gathered from Stiles—the pathetic engagement—had not provided him with much energy, and he finds himself cursing the human, for managing to thwart his immediate revenge schemes yet again. He will have to bide his time until he is able to gather strength and return to the hospital._

_Peter shifts himself on the floor, attempting to find comfortability, smearing the blood stains beneath him. As he relaxes, he notices the silence that has descended upon the space around him. Where before, there had been yelling and movement, now there was nothing but silence._

_Suddenly, a reverberating howl fills the space around him, and despite his efforts, Peter’s body revolts against him and spasms at the sound. He finds himself cowering under the hospital bed, uncontrollable tremors rolling through his body causing him to whimper with the pain that builds inside him. As the howl stretches on, Peter’s whimpers turn to screams of torment, the blood and marrow within his body seeming to boil._

_The silence that follows is broken up by the sounds of Peter’s heavy breathing and slight whimpers of pain._

_His body’s submission to the howl of the Alpha simultaneously frustrates and terrifies him. He knows that in a fight he stands no chance. The urgency that follows gives new life to his determination to leave this place and return to the hospital for new victims. Swallowing the pain, Peter pushes himself to his hands and knees, willing his body to cooperate, when a new noise freezes his actions._

_The body on the bed above him suddenly gasps for air, coughing and spitting, the bed shifting slightly as it rolls back and groans with the effort._

_Peter’s eyes widen and his heart begins to pound rapidly again, this time out of anticipation. Could it—? The sound of the voice that follows answers the question before it can be asked._

_“What the_ fuck _is happening?”_

_If Peter were a singer, he would burst into a version of the Hallelujah Chorus at this moment. His plans aren’t derailed, after all._

_Stiles is_ alive _._

 

********************

 

“I think I’ve got it!”

Deaton speaks aloud, breaking the silence in the room. He pushes away from his desk, holding his tablet in front of him and stepping around the books and manuscripts that are scattered in different places around the room.

Lydia looks around as the pack gathers. She hasn't been more than an arm’s length away from Stiles’ bed since they revived him. Scott, Liam, Mason, and Deaton get up from their places around the room and join her around the foot of the bed. The steady beep indicating Stiles’ strong heartbeat had been providing a comforting background noise. There had been a significant upswing in the research since she had provided her sketch to the pack—and since Stiles’ cardiac arrest. They were all anticipating the moment there would be a breakthrough, and their rush to Stiles’ bedside proved their investment. Her heart swelled in her chest at her Boys’ Club, for their dedication to her and her husband.

“It’s a _preta_.” Deaton lowers the tablet to show the research he had discovered. Lydia nods excitedly in response.

“ _That’s it!_ That’s what’s attacking Stiles.”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “It really doesn’t look that—”

“—scary?” Liam suggests. All eyes lift from the tablet to look at Liam. “Well, it doesn’t. It looks pretty ridiculous, actually.”

Lydia’s eyes bore into him. “It may be ridiculous, Liam, but it’s destroying my husband. So instead of entering it into a beauty pageant, I’m more interested in figuring out how to destroy it.”

“Well, this is interesting,” Deaton saves Liam from his embarrassment. “The preta exists in Buddhist, Hinduist and Taoist philosophy. It is a soul that has been reborn, but cursed to roam the earth hungry.”

“You mean, it’s something that has been reincarnated?” Mason asks.

Deaton shakes his head. “Probably not some _thing_ , but some _one_. In the Buddhist philosophy, pretas are thought to have used their previous life in corrupt, jealous, or greedy ways, and so their next life is cursed with an insatiable hunger for a particular object or substance.”

“So, it was a person that screwed up their life, died, came back, and now it’s _eating_ _Stiles_?” Liam shook his head in disgust.

Deaton looks at Lydia. “‘Did it appear that way?”

She closes her eyes and envisions the scene from her fugue state again. She focuses through the fear that threatens to consume her when she clearly pictures Stiles on the bed, the creature above him.

“Stiles was bleeding, but it was from where he was tied to the bed—his wrists were bleeding. But the creature—the preta—wasn’t eating him. His hands were pressed against Stiles’ chest, and there was light that was coming out of Stiles and running up through the preta’s arms.”

She opens her eyes and looks to Scott.  “Scott, it actually looks similar to when you take away someone’s pain, but with light instead of dark.”

Deaton’s brow furrows. “In all the things I have read about the preta, this doesn’t really match the recorded history. Preta are beings to be pitied. They have been cursed and are unable to be seen, and have insatiable hunger that can’t be quenched. But _this_ creature seems to defy all of those points. You could see him, Lydia, and he was absorbing Stiles’ energy.”

Mason sighs. “Well, the demonology books haven’t been the most accurate in the past, have they?”

Scott chimes in. “I suppose that’s why we’ve been writing our own for the last 15 years. Our Bestiary is the most comprehensive manuscript in the world now. I get download requests for it almost weekly.”

Lydia listens to the conversation around her with only partial attention. The urgency she felt in the hospital has not lessened. She still feels Stiles falling further away from her every moment they aren’t together. Her chest aches with the pull of it, the strings stretched tight, the sinews of her muscles straining as they attempt to hold her pieces together.

Although the scene fills her with dread, she closes her eyes and sees the image of Stiles and the creature again. Its claws dripping with light, its figure crouched and ready to strike. Her mind’s eye travels to his wrists, bloodied and battered, up the arms that had held her through heartaches and wrapped her in passion. She focuses on his face, his beautiful face lined with pain, his eyes wide open, his mouth…

 _His mouth_.

Her hands trail up to her temples, pressing in, trying to sort out fuzzy details in her vision. His mouth wasn’t held open in a scream, or closed in pain—it was mouthing something. Mouthing _words_. She watched his mouth in her memory, the curve of his lips, the rounding of words as he enunciated something for her eyes only...

“He said, ‘It’s Peter.’” She mutters under her breath.

“What’s that, Lydia?” Deaton asks.

“Stiles. He was mouthing something to me when I was in fugue state. He kept mouthing it over and over and I didn’t put it together until just now.” She looked up at Scott, all eyes on her.

“He said, ‘It’s Peter.’”

Liam looks confused. “What? I thought Peter died years ago.”

“ _Wait_. You can read lips, Lydia?” Mason interrupts. “So awesome! And...alarming.”

“Peter definitely didn’t look like _that_ the last time we saw him.” Scott says. “He was getting older, and was still as selfish as hell, but he wasn’t moving into demon territory—at least not any more than he already was.”

Lydia looks back at Deaton. “Alan—you said that the preta is a reincarnated soul. And it is reincarnated as _this_ creature because of the corrupt or greedy or jealous ways it lived its first life, right?”

Deaton nods his assent.

“Well, if that doesn’t describe Peter, then what does?” Liam asks.

“When did you last hear from Peter?” Deaton asks Scott.

“The last I knew he was living close to Derek’s pack. But that was at least 10 years ago. I tend to avoid discussions about him, considering all that he’s done to hurt us.” said Scott.

“We need to call Derek. _Now._ ” Lydia says.

 

****************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a couple of weeks before the next chapter. My deepest apologies, but I really need to set the outline for the rest of the work so I don't run into the hole I dug for myself with the last chapter. 
> 
> I can't express how much the comments and kudos about this story have meant to me. They really help me get over my writing anxieties--I literally copy and paste all of the things you say into a document to keep forever. So thank you thank you thank you.


	7. A Spirit At War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's a preta, everyone! In Chinese it is called an egui, or hungry ghost. which is the image I used when describing Peter. Look them up--they're really creepy. Thank god for actual mythologies that fit into your story ideas, eh? I also had a crazy moment this week while watching Doctor Strange for the first time, and seeing a few moments from the movie parallel what's happening in this story--if any of you know what I'm talking about, hit me up on Twitter so we can chat. It completely freaked me out!
> 
> Thanks for your patience with this chapter. This is kind of the "calm before the storm", but some important stuff happens and so I had to make sure I got it *just* right.
> 
> It has been a rough few weeks for me--do any of you ever have those times in your life when you just want to get in bed and stay there forever and ignore life for like...a long while? That's the kind of season it is for me, and it's been really hard to get out of. I think I am finally seeing some light at the end of this really really dark tunnel, which I'm so thankful for. Writing this story has been pretty therapeutic, and I'm so glad that I've gotten the chance to write again.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have encouraged me. Thanks especially to Suds, Prags, Frass, Lore, Pantsie, and JaneyCakes who held me up and encouraged me when all I wanted to do was cry in the corner. You ladies are the literal best and I couldn't do this without you.
> 
> Come talk with me on Twitter! @im2old4thisotp.

 

***********************

 

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”  
             - Ernest Hemingway

  

***********************

 

Derek Hale is convinced that weariness has become a permanent component of his body. If one were to take out one of his bones, they’d find weariness woven throughout the marrow. It’s so essential to his makeup that, if you were to remove it, his bones would literally crumble, with nothing holding them together anymore.

Other emotions have filled that space in days past—annoyance, guilt, anguish, even periodic moments of joy—but weariness is the one that has replaced all of them, settling firm in his body and refusing to leave.

Some would say that the weariness comes from being the dad of two twin 15-year-old girls—there’s an inevitability of weariness that goes along with raising two powerful were-badasses at the same time. Add in their _oops_ 8-year-old daughter and you have a trio of nothing-but-trouble. But Braeden doesn’t put up with too much shit and drama, so he can’t fully blame it on them.

Some would say the weariness has to do with the fact that he is tasked with the safety of the entire northwestern border of North America, keeping it protected from supernatural influence. He is the first to admit the weightiness and the seriousness to which he takes that responsibility. But he doesn’t do it alone. Braeden, Malia, Cora—they have all helped him set up a system and a series of checkpoints that really take the hard work out of the job. Since teaming with the Argents Hunters Guild, they’ve streamlined the security so much that he barely has to put any effort in—it runs like clockwork.

But when he reflects on his life, his weariness stems from the question, _What have you done with your life, Derek Hale?_ Because if he’s honest, he has _no_ idea what the answer to that question is. There isn’t a good answer. When he was young, he had dreams. Idealistic, ignorant dreams of making the world a better place. But life has a way of taking your dreams and smashing them, breaking them into tiny pieces to fit into the crevices of reality. Small pieces of his dreams remain, but they’d changed as the narrative of his life veered course. His girlfriend died, his family was murdered, his pack lost. He dreamed of making a difference, his evolution sparking his hope for an even greater impact, but the only thing he had been able to do with any consistency is to keep his jackass of an uncle, Peter, from ruining the lives of everyone he had ever met. But even that was a fruitless attempt, as his uncle could only be counted on to create havoc and heartache wherever he went. The effort consumed Derek’s time and his life so that he didn’t have the chance to do much of anything else. 

He had hoped to be a catalyst for change in Peter. In trying to do _right_ , to do _better_ , he would inspire his uncle to see the world differently. Not just as a place to garner and flaunt power, but as a place to _help_. The way that Derek himself had learned from Scott. Scott McCall, the beta who became an omega who became a true alpha just by the way he viewed the world. He had changed everyone, Derek included. He had hoped it would be a catalyst for change in Peter—to want to be better the way that it had changed Derek. But it hadn’t. It had only served to be another thing that Peter lusted after. The power that came from being something that he could never have of his own merit.

It’s this lust for power that had ultimately taken Peter’s life. Derek’s weariness throbs in his bones as his thoughts shift again to his uncle, causing pain deep within him. Derek knows that any progress that he could have made to solidify a pack, to make an even bigger impact, to restore the Hale name to the greatness it used to inspire, all of it was wasted because of Derek’s inability to steer Peter to goodness.

Guilt and frustration simmer below the surface, and Derek wonders, not for the first time, what he could have done differently to influence Peter. Braeden had tried, repeatedly, to convince him it wasn’t his responsibility, that there was only so much he could do to change who a person was determined to be. But Derek still feels the fault of it weighing heavily on him. The guilt will never be assuaged, either. Not since the attack. He will never get another chance to convince Peter to change. To convince him that living a life of goodness and help is better than the fruitless and exhausting quest for power. He will never get that chance because Peter is dead.

When Braeden told him the news, Derek held onto his guilt for days, the sadness at not being given just one more chance to change his uncle holding on tightly to his marrow. But then, an overwhelming sense of relief had filled him. _It was finally over_. He had crushed Braeden to his chest, catching her off guard as he pressed his nose into her neck. “Thank _God_ ,” he had whispered. None of the pack had attended the ritual burning and burial, which wasn’t a surprise, really. Peter had ruined the relationships with every person in his life that he should have loved, even his own daughter. Of course they wouldn’t be interested in attending his burial. Personally, Derek hadn’t wanted to go, either, but the responsibility and the guilt had guided him to at least attempt to bring closure to Peter’s wasted life here on earth. There was a déjà vu that accompanied the burning and the burial—memories of a time not long passed (but also ages ago) when Peter’s body had been burned and buried, only to return again. Derek felt confident that history would not repeat yet again. 

Weeks have passed since that day, and finally Derek feels like the guilt can maybe dislodge from his heart. With Peter gone, he can be _present_ for a change, instead of having one eye on his own life and one eye on his uncle. He is excited for the possibilities. To finally be able to have a decent answer to that question that has plagued him for _years_ . To finally have the freedom to be able to pursue goodness and happiness with his family and his small pack. He feels like the weariness that has been a part of his makeup for so long may finally be able to be replaced with something else. Something more... _hopeful_.

Derek is wrenched from his thoughts by a buzzing in his back pocket. A glimpse at the caller ID sparks his hope. Even though Peter’s death spurs melancholia in himself, at least he can provide good news for Scott McCall.

“Hello Scott, I’m glad you called. I have good news—”

“—Derek. Tell me about Peter.” Scott’s voice interrupts, unapologetically. It’s firm, insistent. And it throws Derek off completely.

“That’s strange. I was _just_ going to tell you about him. Did Lydia feel it? Did she tell you?”

“Lydia just told me that Peter is attacking Stiles. But I thought Peter was with you.”

Confusion colors Derek’s voice. “What are you talking about, Scott? Peter _was_ with me, but...he’s _dead_. I burned his body and buried him a few weeks ago. He heard that the Delfino pack was entering our territory and went to try to take over their pack. Braeden keeps tabs on Peter, and he got himself killed by the Delfino pack when he tried to attack their Alpha.” He let the statement hang in the silence, letting it sink in.

Scott clears his throat. “So, you’re saying that Peter is dead.”  

Derek hears the whispered background conversations through the line. He wonders what they’re saying, but the words are muffled, even with his werewolf hearing. “Yes. He’s finally dead. It’s over.”

“I’m sorry, man—”

“—No, it’s alright, Scott. He was my uncle, but I think we can agree that it’s better for everyone that he’s dead. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No, Derek. I mean, I’m sorry to tell you...he’s _not_ dead.”

There’s a beat before Derek can answer. Finally, he manages on an exhale, “What do you mean, he’s not dead?”

As Scott catches Derek up on the past few weeks, and the theories they have about Peter’s reappearance in the spirit dimension, Derek listens. But at the same time, his head begins to swim. _It can’t be._ Freedom was there—just within his grasp. But again, Peter manages to snatch it out of his hands, even in his death. Derek is left with another of Peter’s messes to clean up, another pack to apologize to, to make amends with. And it’s different this time, because it isn’t just a random pack—it’s _Scott’s pack._ It’s Lydia and Liam and Mason and...Stiles. Skinny, defenseless Stiles who has no supernatural ability whatsoever, but has proven over and over that he’s the glue for the McCall pack, and it will literally fall apart without.

Derek feels the pulse of blood in his ears, his vision blurring in red, the tingle in his fingertips from his claws trying to extend. He barely has control over his rage, it threatens to break through his control at any moment. Unaware, Scott finishes his explanation, and Derek has to take several deep breaths to get a handle on his thoughts...and his anger. “So, let me get this straight. Peter’s spirit is still alive, in the form of a...what’d you call it?”

“A preta.”

“A preta. And it came back and happened to find Stiles and is now killing him in the spiritual dimension which is, in turn, killing him in the physical world.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“If anyone is going to figure out how to come back, it’s my fucking uncle.” Derek releases a low growl, his pulse elevating, but he still has questions he needs answers. He silences the wolf that is clawing at him to escape. “Why? I still don’t understand.”

Scott’s sigh is audible through the line. “We really don’t, either, but we’re working on it now. We think maybe he’s feeding on Stiles’ energy? It’s just a guess, but Stiles is only getting weaker, so it’s feeding on _something_. But the main thing is that Peter is still alive, and for now Stiles is, too. But...we’re running out of time.”

Derek cards his hand through his hair and down his face. He thought he was done with this. But apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor to send someone like Peter back from the dead.

“Alright, Scott. Keep working on how to defeat him. He’s a demon, but he’s still my family. I have to be a part of this. I’m on my way to you.”

As he hangs up, the rage that threatened to escape during the phone call breaks through his feeble control. His eyes burn red, his claws elongate, and he full-shifts into wolf form, howling in anger and agony as he takes off in a full gallop towards Beacon Hills.

 

*************************

 

_Stiles remembers he was dreaming of Lydia. Not a surprise, really. She’d been the focus of his waking and subconscious thoughts his entire life. Her voice, her smile, the whispers of her love. They had been fading slowly in his memories as the oppressive darkness had pressed in closer and closer. He had felt like he was draining slowly through a funnel. What would have been left of him after he was pulled through to the other side, he hadn’t been sure._

_Then, a deafening noise had erupted in the darkness, taking the small space he was compressing into and blowing it wide, flooding it with light and causing him to squeeze his eyes tight against the assault on his senses. He had been blinded again, and his lungs filled with air in a rush._

_It took a moment for him to realize—he was squeezing his eyes tight. His lungs were full of air again. He was in his body once again. All of his bodily feelings came rushing back at once—his lungs expanded to their fullness, his legs and arms tingled to life, the blood rushed through his veins and into his brain at a rapid rate. The sudden flood of life filled his head with a nausea that caught him so suddenly, he rolled to his side and coughed and spit with the force of it, taking deep breaths to steady himself. The black stars that were spotting in and out of his vision slowly minimized as his breathing evened, in and out, and he reveled in the oxygen that filled his body more than it had in days._

_Once his breathing had regulated, the tingling in his arms and legs less like knives and more like tiny pinpricks, he takes in the environment around him. The opaque white has fully descended over the space he is in. His bed is still in full contrast, but he can’t tell at all where he is anymore. Has Peter taken him somewhere? Stiles can’t see him anymore—did he abandon him? Is Lydia still close by? What was the noise he had heard? The questions roll around his brain and he presses his fingertips into his temples, taking note of the blood that drips from his wrists, which he startles to see are free again, the bonds removed._

_“What the fuck is happening?” His voice is scratchy from non-use, but it is stronger than it was in his recent memories._

_After he utters the words aloud, he hears a surprised, shuddered gasp and realizes it comes from Peter. The creature, strangely, lying on the floor next to him. The long, spindly fingers reach up over the edge of the bed, and Stiles sees them strain and pull the body upright._

_“Well, well. You really were trying to do something there, weren’t you, you little shit.”_

_Stiles takes in Peter’s form. It’s more filled out than it was before, but Stiles can tell that his strength is weakened. He is grasping onto the side of the bed like a lifeline, leaning against it as if he can’t stand without the help. While Peter gathers himself, Stiles evaluates his own body. He doesn’t move much, so that he doesn’t give anything away to Peter, but he feels…stronger. His energy level is still dangerously low, like if he tried to stand himself he would collapse like Peter. But it isn’t an absence of strength, it’s just...like it feels at the end of a really hard workout (or how he would feel if he actually y’know, worked out)._

_His wrists burn and sting, the blood slowly dripping from them—Stiles can feel the wetness on the bed under them. But now there’s an undercurrent of strength that is flowing through him that he didn’t feel before. Stiles concentrates on keeping the buzzing beneath his skin under control. When he was younger, his legs and hands would move incessantly, a physical manifestation of the boundless energy that flowed through him at all times. But in this instance, Stiles knows that if he plays his cards too soon, it will just be a waste. If his energy is returning, he needs to pretend that it doesn’t exist. So he focuses on keeping his breathing shallow. His hands and legs still, the impression of weakness._

_Peter’s strained voice interrupts Stiles’ thoughts. “I_ may _have been a little over-zealous in the speed at which I took your memories. I’ll have to back off a bit, take them a little more slowly. But don’t think I have given up. I know you still have a lot more in there to give me.” Peter jabs Stiles’ chest with one long talon, and Stiles reflexively flinches against it._

_Peter trails his claws over Stiles’ chest, watching as they alight with the energy being pulled from him. Stiles’ breath hitches as the pain leeches from him again. Stiles searches his memory for something to distract Peter, to give himself more time to recover, to gain more strength. He strains his voice as he thinks of Lydia._

_“What did you think of the last memory you took from me?”_

_Peter scoffs aloud, a bead of spit flying from his mouth and landing on Stiles’ cheek. Stiles has to focus on keeping himself from disgustedly wiping it away, reminding himself to keep it quiet._

_“Yes, well. That didn’t fill me nearly as well as I would have liked. Very disappointing indeed. I’ll just need to find something a little more...palatable this time. More memories like...the babies. Now_ that _was a filling memory. Painful, agonizing, perfect for filling my body with the power I crave.”_

_Peter’s attention turns again to Stiles’ chest, claws pressing in. Stiles can feel the door to his memories slowly opening again, and he concentrates on holding it closed in his soul, keeping Peter out. “My engagement to Lydia was a disappointment to you? Not enough hurt and pain, eh, Peter? You were trying to search for how I got Lydia to fall in love with me. But you can search and search, killing me over and over, but you’ll never understand. Because you’ll never understand love.”_

_Peter’s eyes narrow at Stiles’ words, and he sneers. “Love? What’s the point of_ love _? It’s a pathetic human attempt to feel valued. To feel like their presence on this earth is worth something. But you know what truly makes you feel valued?_ Power _. And I’m going to take it from you with the most painful memories you have, Stiles.”_

_Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates. The door to his memory is being pulled open. He senses Peter’s fingers wrapping around it, Stiles pushing against it with all of his strength, refusing to let Peter in. The feelings of loss and sorrow are flooding out of the open space, and Stiles hears Peter take a deep inhale. The sound that he releases is explicit, making Stiles’ insides curl in disgust._

_“_ Yes _, Stiles. This is the kind of memory I want.” Peter lifts one hand off of Stiles’ chest and trails one of his claws to his mouth, sucking on the tip of the talon and moaning in pleasure. “A funeral. Sadness over the loss of your parent—oh, the loss of the Sheriff. It’s_ delicious _. It’s powerful._ I want it. _”_

_Peter’s hand slams back onto Stiles’ chest, digging in aggressively, and Stiles can’t hold back the pained noise that escapes him. His internal push against the door of the memory slips, but he catches it again at the last moment. Peter’s eyes widen at Stiles’ effort. He grunts in response, focusing his eyes on the claws, willing more intention into them._

_Stiles feels the pull, but he refuses to give up. His eyebrows cinch together, his face straining with the effort of keeping Peter out. Lydia’s face floods his vision again, even as the tendrils of the memory flutter out of the door. Stiles can see the door straining with the effort. His chest burning as the talons cut into him, deeper still. He sees Lydia, feels her whisper within him._

Hold on, Stiles. Fight it. I’m coming.

_Peter pulls in a deep breath, his bellow filling up the space around them. “Give it to me!”_

_Stiles senses another memory close. Another memory he can give to Peter. If he’s going to go down, he is going to do it with memories that he_ wants _to relive. He uses his remaining energy to wedge the funeral door shut and open another one, tumbling on a shared gasp with Peter into the unconsciousness._

 

************************

 

Stiles is bored. So so bored. He picks his fingernails and shuffles from foot to foot, waiting for Lydia to finish talking with her old math teacher. Stiles is proud of her, of course—youngest recipient of the Beacon Hills Alumni of the Year award is pretty great. He’s sure the plaque they gave her will take a place of honor right next to the Fields Medal she won 6 months ago. But the way the teacher is droning on and on is making Stiles’ ears buzz and eyes glaze over—exactly the feeling he had the last time he was in a math class here.

When Lydia talks math, Stiles feels his pulse race and his jeans get tighter. Lydia makes math positively _fuckable_ . But this guy? _Jesus_ . Thank God he’s done with math classes forever. At least Stiles gets to look at Lydia in that short skirt. He had admired it all day as she swung her hips through the hallways of Beacon High again, easily gaining looks of envy from the girls lining the lockers. _Some things don’t change_ , he thinks, smiling to himself. _She can still own this school right now if she wants to_. He looks again at the program from the awards ceremony, and admires Lydia’s name on the front of it. She had really done it. Of course she did. She’s Lydia-fucking-Martin.

“And this is my fiance’, Stiles Stilinski. You may remember him, he sat behind me in class.” Lydia turns her attention toward him, and he shakes himself straight, fumbling to shake the teacher’s hand, and in the process, drops the program.

“Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Flanery weakly shakes his hand, Stiles noticing his eyes still fixed on Lydia.

“Yeah, you too…” His words fade as he notices the teacher actually turning his back towards him to give Lydia his full attention. Stiles kneels down to pick up the program. “....you _pervert_ ,” he mutters under his breath. He looks to his right where Lydia’s bare legs are a mere foot away. His eyes trail upwards and when they reach her skirt, his jaw drops. He sputters and coughs abruptly and then stands upright, gently taking Lydia by the elbow.

“Umm, excuse me, Mr. Flanery, but, um, Lydia has some urgent business to attend to.” He and Lydia veer away, leaving the confused and frustrated Mr. Flanery in their wake.

When they round the corner, Lydia pulls back and stops. “What in the world was that about?”

Stiles’ voice is low and insistent. “First of all, that guy is disgusting. I don’t like him.”

Lydia crosses her arms and rolls her eyes, “You don’t like any of the professors, Stiles.”

Stiles’ voice rises, “Because they all want to get into your skirt. They’re not even subtle about it!”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Stiles, they like me because I’m smart.”

“Smart _and_ fucking gorgeous. Lethal combination to perverted lonely math professors.” His voice raises at the end, willing it to reach Mr. Flanery’s ears.

Lydia swats at his arm and hisses. “Will you shut up? There are kids here!”

“Oh, fuck ‘em. I can handle the boys here pathetically eye-fucking you all day, but that old guy was a creep and it was weirding me out.”

Lydia crosses her arms. “Is that all?”

“No, one more _tiny_ thing,” Stiles continues on, his voice dropping again. “Where the _fuck_ are your underwear?”

Lydia smiles knowingly at him. She looks up at him through her lashes and bites her bottom lip. She stretches up on her toes to whisper into his ear, “I didn’t wear any.”

His eyes blink wildly, and his mind goes completely blank for a split second. Then, “ _Jesus Christ,_ Lydia.” He leaps into action. He grabs Lydia’s hand, and pulls so fast she nearly leaves her high heels behind. The sound from their feet against the tile reverberates in the empty hallway, the sounds of school muffled behind closed doors. Lydia’s laugh trails behind them through the corridor, and Stiles can’t help but join her.

 

***********************

 

_“What the hell kind of memory is this?” Peter’s disgust is evident as he jerks his talons out of Stiles’ chest._

_Stiles’ laughter continues with him into consciousness. “You wanted memories, Peter, you’re getting them.”_

_Peter slowly lifts his talons from Stiles’ chest, disgust rolling off of him in waves as he watches the memories drip away. He shakes his hands like he can’t wait to rid himself of the filth. “You jackass. I want the_ funeral _memory. Seems like we’re going to have to go a little deeper with the talons this time, eh, Stiles? I don’t care if I_ do _kill you. I want the strong memories. And you don’t have the power to stop me.”_

_Stiles gives Peter a wry smile. “But, then you’ll miss the best part.”_

_Stiles moves quickly and suddenly, catching Peter off-guard. He grabs onto Peter’s wrists that are hovering out in front of him. Peter’s gaze wrenches up to Stiles’ face in shock._ He forgot that I’m untied _, Stiles realizes. He smiles triumphantly, and wrenches Peter’s wrists around with as much force as he can muster. Stiles then shoves Peter’s taloned hands back down into his own chest, holding them to himself. Peter cries out in pain, Stiles crying out as well, as the cuts in his wrists reopen and blood flows anew. But Stiles’ hands remain gripped around Peter’s wrists, and they tumble together back into the memory._

 

*******************

 

“Stiles, wait—slow down!” Lydia is pulling back on his arm, dragging her feet to try to get him to slow down, but giggling at the same time.

“We don’t have a lot of time—the bell will ring in about 10 minutes, and these hallways will be filled with people.”

Lydia half-runs to keep up with Stiles’ long, purposeful strides. “You know, you weren’t nearly this focused when we were actually students here.”

“Eh, time changes a man. I am much more focused now. This is me, focused.” They round the corner and he pushes open the door to the boys’ locker room. “Ten years, you know. I’m a certifiable grown-up now.”

“Certifiable is right,” she grins at him as he whirls back to face her. He is looking at her with fire in his gaze, warming her up from deep inside.

He firmly grabs her waist and pulls her close, his lips smashing into hers, slanting over hers again and again as he backs her up against a locker. He feels Lydia’s breath hitch in her throat when she feels his hardness pressing against her hips. He tears his lips away from hers, trailing kisses across her cheek to her ear and taking it in his teeth. His voice is muffled against her neck.

“I’ve dreamed about getting you in here like this for thirteen years, and it took you _all day_ to tell me you weren’t wearing anything under this fucking skirt?” He presses his lips against her neck, nipping and sucking on her, building the heat between them. He feels her hands gripping his forearms, her breaths loud as he focuses his attention on her collarbone. Stiles slides one hand under her blouse and rubs her nipples over her bra, the other hand trailing down to grip her ass, his long fingers skimming just past the hem of her skirt to lay on her bare skin underneath. Her hips cuddle him instinctively, her skirt riding up against his jeans, and she moans when she rubs against his zipper, loving the feel of the friction.

Lydia is breathless. “This is the first place we kissed.” She pulls Stiles’ dress shirt out of his waistband, her hands sliding up underneath and splaying out across his back. “And the second.”

“You saved my life in here,” he replies, his fingers moving under the lace of her bra, rolling her nipples between her fingers as she arches into him.

“Twice.” Lydia angles her neck, giving Stiles better access, her hands sliding around his waistband and unbuckling his belt.

Stiles pulls back to look at her, his fingers still working her nipples, making her pant and her hands fumble at his waist. “You fell in love with me in this locker room. And I’m bringing you back here now to fuck you in it. Poetic, isn’t it?”

“Shh...we don’t have time, remember? Just shut up and touch me, you idiot.”

Lydia’s hands pull on the waistband of his boxer briefs, one hand diving inside and wrapping itself around him, the hardness filling her hand. Stiles can’t hold back the strangled noises that escape his lips, his hand moving further past her ass towards her heat.

“ _Yesssss,_ Stiles,” Lydia moans as his fingers touch her, moving between her folds and pressing against her clit. “I’ve been clenching and ready all day, thinking about you.” Her words elicit a moan from him, and she catches it with her mouth, pressing her tongue inside. She pushes his pants and boxer-briefs down and lifts one of her legs to hook over his hip, feeling him press against her. She looks in his eyes, “I need you inside me. _Now_.” He reaches down and lifts her, his hands under her thighs, pressing her back tighter against the locker. She guides him inside and then wraps her arms around his neck, anchoring herself. She sinks down and he pushes forward to fill her, moaning against her neck as his head drops to her shoulder.

Stiles rocks up into her over and over and she meets every thrust, gripping his shoulders and pulling on his hair. Their breaths and moans are lost amidst the sound of the locker doors rattling on their hinges. She bites her lip and barely stifles the low whine that erupts as she throws her head back against the locker and comes around him. At her release, his follows, but the deep moan pressing into the dip between her neck and shoulder is suddenly drowned out by the jarring bell.

A moment later the door bursts open, the voices of teenaged boys interrupting the silence of the room. Stiles looks wide-eyed at Lydia, who quickly pushes off of him and down to the floor, adjusting her skirt as he struggles to pull up his pants and button them before the voices find them.  

“And so you see, Lydia, this is where my old locker used to be!” Stiles’ voice carries, his nervous energy making him louder than he intends to be.

“Stilinski! Martin!” Coach’s voice thunders out across the room. “What in the hell is going on in here?

  
Stiles is still struggling with his belt buckle as he looks up to see Coach standing 5 feet away, with an army of boys behind him. “Coach! You’re looking remarkably well—” 

“Shut it, Stilinski. I can see that your deeply flawed nature has not improved since graduating, since you are willing to get caught tangling with your girlfriend—”

“—fiance’, Coach. She’s my fiance’.” Stiles interrupts, a proud tinge to his voice.

“—Whatever. She’s smeared her red lipstick all over your face, Stilinski. You’re an embarrassment. Get out of here now, before I make you run laps just for the hell of it.”

“Don’t worry, Coach. We won’t ever _come_ in here again.” Stiles winks at him, and he and Lydia burst into laughter as he grabs her hand and pulls her out of the locker room, giving high fives to a couple of the cheering players as they pass.

 

******************

 

_Stiles’ laughter throws them out of the memory together, as Peter yanks his wrists out of Stiles’ grasp with a look of disgust etched across his face. He dramatically spits over his shoulder, taking a step backwards. His breath heaves in and out._

_“What in the hell did you just do?” Peter can’t hide his disgust...and, Stiles realizes, his_ terror _. His hands are shaking, his eyes darting around the room, foolishly searching for answers in an empty space._

_Stiles is exhausted, but elated. He feels the power of his memories beginning to flood through him again. He isn’t strong, the effort of pulling Peter into the memory taking out his energy reserve. But Stiles can’t bring himself to care. He had done it. He had fought him._

_And Peter looks afraid. Stiles can feel as Peter moves back to the bed quickly, re-tightening the bonds on his wrists, but he can also feel Peter’s shaking hands, hears his shuddered breath and senses his confusion. Whatever just happened, it made Peter afraid, and...it didn’t strengthen him. Maybe, if Stiles can hold him off for just a little bit longer, Lydia will figure out how to get him back._

_Stiles’ arms are bound again, but now he is armed. With hope. Stiles’ laughter echoes in the white space that surrounds them._

_“There’s plenty more where that came from, big guy.”_

 

_********************_


	8. A Spirit Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Thank goodness for vacations with endless writing time.
> 
> This chapter was tough to write--have you ever tried to write pack discussions? Try it sometime. It ain't for the weak. Thank you to @PantsQueenn for helping me trim the fat.
> 
> Hope you all like this installment--the final calm before the storm. We are getting SO close to the end. The s really hits the fan after this. 
> 
> Thank you all for hanging with me throughout this journey. I hope you like what happens!

 

*********************

 

Draw me a map that I can hold  
Lines that tell me where to go  
My head is full of lonely harmonies  
And questions no one's asking me  
Who's gonna take my hand, show me the way?  
How long will I have to wait for someday?  
                 

                       “Finding North”, The Civil Wars

  


*********************

 

“Hold on, I’m confused.”

The pack stands around the bed, Lydia’s hands holding Stiles’, tracing patterns on his skin. She sighs audibly at Liam. Liam’s brute strength is an asset, but she swears, sometimes she wants to kill him for how long it takes him to catch up.

Scott speaks up. “It’s okay. I’m confused, too. Can you explain again, Lydia? Maybe...in English this time?”

Lydia’s annoyance must be written plainly on her face, because Mason gently puts his hand on her arm, stopping her from shrilling at their misunderstandings. Thank God for Mason. He is much more patient than she is right now—and he’s smart enough to keep up.

“What Lydia’s saying is that Stiles’ consciousness is existing on another plane right now. It’s called the astral plane. Lots of religions believe in it, but it’s always been theoretical—well, faith-based, actually. But _we_ know for a fact that the astral plane exists—and we know three different ways to access it.”

“What are the three ways?” Liam asks.

Lydia’s annoyance is gone, and she answers. “First, by lowering your core body temperature to induce a coma-like state.” She looks at Scott. “The way we did years ago, with you and Malia.”

“It nearly killed us.” He shudders with the memory.

Lydia nods in agreement. “Plus, it isn’t guaranteed—you remember how you could see your memories of Stiles, but you couldn’t actually see him. We can’t try something that isn’t going to work. Stiles doesn’t have that much time.”

“But you saw Peter in the hospital, right? You must have crossed into the astral plane. How’d that happen?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly lucid. I was making myself sick with worry. I’m thinking that weakness gave me access to the astral plane. It’s called astral projection.”

“Like the Kindestod.” Mason murmurs to himself.

“The what?” Liam asks.

Mason must not have expected to be heard, because he is surprised to find all eyes on him. “The Kindestod demon. It feeds off of the souls of children, and you can only see it when you’re really, really sick. Like, deadly sick.”

“I’ve heard of that story. What made you think of it?” Deaton asks, impressed.

Mason looks a little embarrassed. “Umm...I saw it on _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_? They must’ve had an emissary in their writer’s room, because they were spot-on with a lot of their mythologies.” Deaton’s eyebrows raise, which doesn’t escape Mason’s notice. “Anyway, Buffy injected herself with a virus so she could see the Kindestod to kill it. But she also nearly got killed in the process because she was so weak that she couldn’t fight.”

Scott huffs. “Well, I’m not injecting you with a virus to make you sick, Lydia, especially if it makes you too weak to fight Peter.”

Lydia hesitates for a moment. “I won’t need you to. I think we can imitate the situation. It’s not as effective, but do you remember how I opened the rift to Stiles?”

“Yeah—with hypnosis. So you’re saying that connects you to the astral plane? So you can reach Stiles to bring him back?”

Lydia shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak, but Deaton stops her with a hand on her arm and a nod. “I think it’s best to start there. No sense in putting Lydia in real danger if we can access him through a safer method.”

Liam interjects. “Hold on—what’s the third way to access him?”

Lydia looks around the room, raising an eyebrow at Deaton, and then locking eyes with Scott. “It’s the one that I think we should be doing. The third way is by putting me in a mistletoe ice bath.”

Scott’s eyes widen with understanding, and he sputters, “You mean, we _kill_ you.”

“ _No_ , Scott. We force my body into the astral plane and I bring him back.”

“Absolutely not, Lydia.” Scott’s body is leaning forward, and he looks like he wants to shake her, to rattle some sense into her.

“I know Deaton wants to try the hypnosis, but I don’t think it will work, honestly. It’s not a strong enough entrance into the astral plane—it would be like my body is only halfway there, and that kind of connection isn’t going to be strong enough to pull Stiles back here. I know it.”

Scott’s body is still wound tight, his body leaning up on his toes, the struggle he is having in his mind filling his entire body. “You think killing yourself is the best option.”

“I _know_ it’s the best option. It’s dangerous, of course, and Deaton thinks the hypnosis option will work, but...” Her voice trails off. She tries to keep the frustration out of her tone, but she knows she is failing. The clock feels like it’s ticking faster and faster, a contrast to the beeping on Stiles’ heart monitor, which is slowing again. It’s a minute change, but it’s there, an indicator that Stiles’ fight against Peter is continuing, but also coming to an end. And there will be no last-second heroics this time. If his heart stops again, that’s it. Time is of the essence, and Lydia needs Scott to understand. He is the pack leader. If she can convince him that it’s the best way, that time dictates they take more drastic measures, then the rest of the pack will fall in line. Deaton is just an emissary, he doesn’t make the decisions. If she can get Scott to agree...

“ _No_.” He doesn’t look at her, stares straight ahead and refuses to meet her gaze.

Lydia’s breath leaves her in a rush. “No? What do you mean, _no_ ? All of the things we have faced together, all the times that my instincts have been right. They’re screaming that this will work, Scott. And now, when the stakes are the highest they’ve ever been, when _Stiles’ life_ is on the line, you don’t trust me?”

Scott can’t bring his eyes to meet hers. His voice is soft as he responds. “I… I trust you, Lydia. But…”

“What? Why won’t you let me do this?”

Scott’s eyes meet Lydia’s finally, and she is taken aback by the fear she sees. “I trust _you_ , Lydia. But I don’t trust _me_. If I lose you too…” His voice breaks, his eyes squeeze tight against tears that threaten to fall, and he drops his head in defeat. His shoulders curl in on themselves, like he’s trying to hold in the fear that threatens to burst out of him. Instinctively, the pack moves closer together. Liam’s hands come up to squeeze Scott’s shoulders, and Mason leans into his side. Scott pulls in a deep breath and looks back at Lydia. “If I lose you, I don’t think I can make it. I really don’t.”

Silence descends over the pack as Scott and Lydia keep eye contact with each other. Everything inside Lydia is shouting that this isn’t the best decision. Hypnosis won’t work—the ice bath is the best way. But staring in Scott’s eyes, seeing his fear at losing her. It breaks Lydia’s will to fight him. After the way he lost Allison, the way he is losing Stiles, she knows that she can’t be the one to willfully bring him more pain when there may be another option. So she shoves down her doubt. For him.

“Okay, Scott. I’ll try. But please, you have to prepare yourself if this doesn’t work. You have to prepare yourself for option two.”

Scott’s relief is visible as he nods. He reaches for her hand and squeezes it on top of Stiles’. “It’ll work, Lydia. I know it will.”

Lydia smiles faintly at him. She wants to believe it will work. She does. But she’ll have to actively shove down the doubt that keeps filling her mind, the feeling that by doing this, by wasting time, Stiles is slipping further away from her.

 

*******************

 

_Stiles can’t decide if learning how to fight against Peter was a good idea or the worst fucking idea ever._

_Peter filled with glee-tinged revenge was actually tolerable. Well, it hadn’t been tolerable at that moment—Stiles had felt like he was being ripped apart piece-by-piece. But it was almost a lazy pain. Enduring, but pain without focus, pain without drive. Peter would stumble through Stiles’ memories like he was browsing casually for something to read, the pain lingering but never taking a firm hold._

_But now. Now, Peter is filled with rage-induced revenge, and it is one hundred percent agonizing. He is purpose-filled and driven. Diving into Stiles’ chest with his claws and ripping the doors to his memories open with force and anger. Where before it was a lazy stroll, now it is a driving, pounding death march, one that Stiles isn’t sure he is going to be able to fight for much longer. Occasionally he would be able to force Peter off, to journey through a memory that gave Stiles strength instead, but Peter is gaining his own strength back rapidly, and it is taking more of Stiles’ energy to fight against him each time._

_Peter had just emerged from the memory of a particularly painful encounter with a band of wendigos, after which Lydia had learned the truth about Stiles’ permanent scar on his shoulder, and Stiles spits out when Peter pulls away, surprised to find a metallic taste in his mouth. He has bitten a wound into his lip from the memory of it. Peter delights in it, of course._

_“Oh, did you get a particularly bitter taste in your mouth from that one, Stiles?”_

_Stiles grits his teeth. He knows that arguing with Peter just gives him more incentive to dig deep, so Stiles keeps his mouth shut, something he’s never been very good at doing._

_“Nothing to say anymore? Tired of fighting and losing? I’ll tell you,_ I’m _not tired. In fact, I’m feeling a bit inspired by all of our time together. I’m learning so much about you. So many things you have kept from me for all these years. Your pack shut me out, you know.” As Peter speaks, he begins to pace, growing more and more agitated as he remembers his own history. “_ My _pack shut me out. My own pack, turning their backs on their leader, the one who made them. The one who is responsible for turning them all into the glorious, power-filled beings that they are. Do they thank me? Of course not. They treat me like a pariah, a nuisance. Someone to be pitied and maintained.”_

_If Stiles were a more forgiving man, he may feel a semblance of pity for the being in front of him. His loneliness. His isolation. One may feel compassion for someone who was so obviously looking for love and acceptance, but so completely and hopelessly missing the point._

_But Stiles isn’t a forgiving man. There’s too much history. Peter stole Scott’s future. He devastated his own family for his own personal gain. He tried to steal Scott’s power and his pack over and over by any means possible. This is the man who sought to destroy Lydia. For that, Stiles will never forgive. He will never have pity. He will never regard Peter as anything other than a waste of space, someone who stole from the lives of others, without care of anything other than his own gain._

_So Stiles turns his head away. Seeks another focus, something else to help steel himself against the next attack. The room is completely opaque white now, which makes it difficult for Stiles to focus. But he concentrates as hard as he can, willing the energy into his brain, shutting out Peter’s constant droning of_ pity me love me see me _._

_In moments of pain, imagining Lydia had become a long-time coping mechanism for him. When he was investigating a particularly cruel case, or getting nowhere in a long line of interview questions, he would often envision her. He didn’t find himself conjuring up what she looked like in the large moments of their lives together—instead, he had visions of what she looked like first thing in the morning: sleep-drunk and bed-mussed, or how she looked when they were arguing, or he would remember how she looked walking down the halls of Beacon Hills High when they were younger. In all of his memories, she looked for him, her eyes searching until she found his own, her own lighting up as he was sure his did to her._

_So he isn’t surprised when he envisions her now. Her hair is up in a bun atop her head, she’s dressed casually but still beautifully, and she’s searching for him at a distance. He tries to remember when this particular vision of her originates from, and he’s having trouble placing it. Then he realizes: this vision isn’t from the past. It’s from the present. He’s not sure how it’s possible, but the clarity of the vision clues him in. He’s seeing her as she is_ now _. She’s faint, like he’s looking at her through a dense fog, her edges blurry, the colors of her clothes faded . But it’s definitely Lydia, and like she is in all of his visions, she’s searching for him._

_Stiles’ eyes flick to Peter, who is continuing his rant. He hasn’t noticed Lydia’s approach. Stiles wants to call out to her, to give her a sign of where he is. Something about the haze, something about the distance between them is keeping her from finding him easily. But Stiles is also worried about tipping Peter off. The last thing he wants is for Peter to attack Lydia. Stiles is paralyzed with indecision. What should he do? Lydia continues moving closer to him, her image getting larger and more clear with each step she takes. Stiles’ heart is pounding a wild beat._

_Suddenly, he notices that it’s quiet. He looks to Peter who is staring directly at him, a questioning look on his grotesque face._

_“What are you staring at?”_

_Stiles tries not to look. But his eyes flit over to Lydia subconsciously, and Peter follows his gaze._

_“What is it? What do you see?” Peter’s head whips back and forth around the space in front of Stiles’ attention, searching for what he is seeing. His actions indicate a comforting truth:_

Peter doesn’t see her.

_An intense relief washes over Stiles. If Peter can’t see her, he can’t attack her. She’s safe. At that moment, Lydia’s eyes find Stiles._

_For days now, the string that connects the two of them together had felt completely lightweight, like it had been stretched too far and was floating, weightless and unmoored in the empty chasm that separated the two of them. It had frightened Stiles, not knowing if Lydia was okay at the other end of it. But upon eye contact, the connection snaps back again, and Stiles feels like his body will rise off the bed it is so tight between them. Lydia suddenly lurches toward Stiles, like the connection jerks her body into an awareness of where he is, and is pulling her physically toward him._

_He can’t keep his hands from reaching out, trying to grab for her. He sees her hands doing the same. She looks as if she is trying to run, but her body moves slowly through the space, agonizingly slow._

_“Who’s there?” Peter yells out. His spindly arms begin flailing wildly, claws extended, searching for the intruder that he knows exists but can’t see. He stumbles around the space around Stiles’ bed, hands clawing through the air, searching blindly for what may be lurking there._

_“There’s nothing, Peter!” Stiles yells in return. He can’t let Lydia get hurt. “There’s nothing there!”_

_“Liar!” Peter screeches, grabbing Stiles’ chin firmly in his grasp. “That bitch is up to something. You wouldn’t look the way you do unless she were here. You give her away, Stiles. You always have.” He flails his arms out and around him, seeking to attack what he can’t see._

_Suddenly, Peter stops his flailing, and in a quick rush, leaps atop Stiles’ bed, crouching again over his body like an animal guarding its prey._

_“You can’t have him, Lydia!” Peter bellows into the space. “You’ll have to get through me first.”_

_Stiles’ eyes shift wildly to Lydia, who is so close to the bed finally that she can touch him. But she’s still hazy, her proximity to Stiles doing nothing for the solidity of her form. She reaches out and grabs his hand, but although the tether on his heart thrums wildly, he can’t feel her hand, can’t grab anything in return. She tries to unlatch him from the bed, moving quickly to release his bonds, but her hands don’t make any impact on them—she seems to float through them like a ghost. He tries to help her, tries to move his wrists to make more space for her to work, but he is bound so tightly now._

_Peter sees Stiles’ wrist and hand jump to action, and in a quick move, swipes his claws directly into the space where Lydia stands. Stiles yells out, and bucks his hips up in an attempt to throw Peter off, to keep him from harming Lydia, but Peter is so heavy against his chest, and the effort manages only a small change to Peter’s momentum. But it is enough. Stiles sees the claws swipe towards Lydia. A moment before they would have sliced through her face, but instead they graze across her shoulder. Stiles sees her flinch, her mouth open with a yell that can barely be heard, her eyes widening. At her pain, Stiles seethes red with anger, and he screams out her name, while Peter simultaneously smiles a feral smile, locking his eyes onto the space just off the bed._

_“Aah,_ there you are _, my dear.” The catch of his claws against her skin gives him a target, and Peter moves quickly toward the space where Lydia is trying in vain to release Stiles again. Stiles pulls against his restraints and does what little he can to obstruct Peter, lifting up his legs and kicking at Peter. His foot lands a solid kick at Peter’s chest at the same moment that his claws swipe toward her chest. She dodges at the last second, causing his swipe to miss by mere centimeters, the force behind his swing sending him into a heap at the foot of Stiles’ bed. She takes a deep breath and forces a scream at Peter. The power is enough to force Peter to fall off the bed, but it is far from a death-blow. Her faded appearance also stifles her power, and the scream is barely above a whisper. Stiles sees her eyes widen. This isn’t going to work. She has to get away, Stiles realizes. She can’t fight, she can’t release his bonds, and Peter won’t stop hurting her until she’s dead._

_It hurts every part of him to see the look in her eyes as he yells at her. “Get out of here, Lydia! Go!”_

_Lydia’s eyes latch on to Stiles’, and he can see the tears that have gathered in them, whether from pain or from grief, he doesn’t know. He sees her form fade further into white. Peter senses her position and struggles to get up for another attack. Lydia steps towards Stiles’ face, he notices the blood dripping from her shoulder—how badly is she hurt?—and her hand traces down his cheek. He sees her mouth move and can make out the words—I’m coming back for you._

_“Lydia! No!” Stiles yells into the space. He can’t let her get hurt for him. Just as Peter dives for the area where Lydia stands, she disappears, and Peter ends up in a heap next to Stiles._

_“Where is she!” Peter bellows, swiping maniacally at the empty space, searching for someone that no longer exists._

_Stiles grasps into the empty space where her hands had held his moments before. “She’s gone.” She had figured out a way to get to him again, but it had failed, and she had been hurt. If there’s anyone he knows better than himself, it’s Lydia Stilinski. She’s not going to give up, she’s going to try again, and not for the first time, he is filled with the dread and fear of losing her. His eyes fill with tears and he feels them slide off his cheek one by one._

_Peter’s hands grip the side of the bed, and he pulls himself up to look in Stiles’ eyes. A wild, frenzied tinge is in his blue eyes, and Stiles shrinks back from it. He knows this will only serve to fuel Peter’s drive, make his determination to get as much power in his fledgling body as he can before Lydia tries again._

_“That bitch is getting closer. I almost had her this time, didn’t I, Stiles?”_

_The disgust that pours out of Stiles’ mouth can’t be helped. He knows he should stay quiet, try to temper Peter’s rage, but he can’t. He forces the words out like daggers, trying to hurt Peter the only way he’s able. “You hurt my wife. I swear to God, when I get out of these bonds, I will mangle your body so badly that even the gods that sent you here won’t be able to piece you back together again.”_

_Peter leans down, his hot breath washing over Stiles. “You’re never getting out of these bonds. I’m going to take your memories and the last of your power until there’s nothing left of you but a barely-alive shell. And when she comes back again to claim you, I’ll leave you alive long enough to watch as I tear her apart, piece by piece.”_

_The hot tears run into Stiles’ mouth as he yells out in pain and fear, the talons from Peter’s hands digging into his chest again._

 

*******************

 

Lydia groans back into consciousness, the noise escaping her lips as she doubles over the table in front of her.

“Oh my god, Lydia!” Scott yells next to her, his hands gripping her around the waist as he lifts her up. Blood is pouring out of the wounds in her shoulder, and he is careful to not touch them as he carries her over to an exam table. “What happened? Did you see Stiles? Is he okay?"

Lydia’s focus is slow to recover, but once she does, she takes in the sight around her. Mason, Liam, Deaton and Scott all hovering around her, concerned looks painting their faces. Scott is tearing the sleeve of her shirt, looking over her shoulder and prodding at her gently.

She inhales sharply as he touches a sensitive spot, but soothes him immediately. “It’s okay, Scott. It looks worse than it is.” He looks at her, disbelief obvious on his face. “It isn’t that deep. Really. Stiles moved Peter enough that he didn’t get a good swing in.”

Scott’s eyes fly to hers. “Stiles fought Peter off?” Lydia doesn’t miss the hopeful uptick in his tone. She explains what happened while Scott bandages her shoulder, noting that Lydia was right: it wasn’t that deep, and she didn’t need stitches.

“Good. I don’t have time for that. I have to go back. And soon.”

“What?” Liam exclaims. “You just got out. Peter almost _killed_ you. You can’t go back, Lydia.”

Lydia looks at Deaton. “Remember I told you that Stiles is tied to the bed? I think it’s actually holding him in that dimension. I tried getting them loose but I couldn’t touch them at all. Unless I can go into the astral plane as a more corporeal being, I won’t be able to loosen them, and I won’t be able to bring Peter back, either.”

“ _No_ , Lydia.” Scott interjects, shaking his head. “I can’t let you do that. Not yet. You have to heal first.”

Lydia waits for Scott to finish wrapping up her shoulder, and then she grabs his hands. “I’m _fine_ , Scott. Really.” She turns her attention to Deaton. “Alan, I’m thinking we still have a problem with this plan.”

“I think I know what you’re going to say, Lydia, and I agree. I’ve been working on it while you were in hypnosis.”

Liam looks confusedly between the two. “Umm...someone want to fill the rest of us in?”

“It’s the preta’s spirit, right?” Mason asks Deaton, who nods. “I was wondering that, too.”

“Hello?” Liam asks, irritated. “Not all of us graduated with honors from UCLA, y’know. A little help?”

Deaton responds. “If she can get him untied from the bed, Lydia’s connection with Stiles is enough to pull him back into the physical dimension here. But it doesn’t help us bring Peter along.”

“Why would we want to bring Peter with Stiles? Isn’t he killing Stiles?” Liam asks.

“Yes,” Deaton answers. “But if we leave Peter there, then we have no way of keeping tabs on him. He could choose to attack again, or go on attacking others. We would have no idea. The only way we can assure his containment is if we bring him into this dimension.”

“So you’ve been researching how to bring him with Stiles?” Scott speaks up. His arm is around Lydia, and Lydia can’t help leaning into him.

“Yes.” Deaton confirms. “There is a lot of recorded history of demons entering the physical realm, but most of them choose to stay on the astral plane. Do their damage without being seen. But forcefully bringing a demon from the astral plane to the physical plane takes a bit more finesse, and a lot more resources than I think we currently have. Come. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

Scott’s head drops to the top of Lydia’s head as everyone heads to leave.

Deaton turns back at the door. “Are you coming?”

Lydia shakes her head. “Scott can fill me in. I’m going to stay with Stiles.”

“Are you sure? I can stay with him.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. You can fill me in. I want to talk to Stiles.”

Scott nods and gets up, guiding Lydia over to Stiles’ bed. “I’ll just be a few minutes, okay?” He lays a gentle kiss onto her forehead, then follows Deaton out of the room.

Lydia will never let Scott know, but she aches everywhere. Her shoulder stings from the ointment that Scott applied, yes. But more than anything, her chest hurts, and her mind feels off. The pull from the tether between her and Stiles had tightened so strongly for those few minutes. She finally felt whole again, for the first time in weeks. But then she left the hypnosis, and the tether felt just as loose and unstable as it had before the hypnosis--maybe more so. Like each time it was forced to stretch it couldn’t return as tightly as it had been before. It scares her. She feels her control over her mind weakening. The voices she has worked so hard to contain are getting louder in her head, and she feels her throat getting tighter. There’s a scream that had nearly clawed its way out of her when Stiles had flatlined, and it is creeping upwards yet again. As Stiles’ heartbeat weakens, she feels it swell within her a bit more.

She’s scared of this loss of control. She knows what it means for her future. But when she focuses on her main emotion right now, the one she focuses on is her anger. She _knew_ the hypnosis wasn’t going to work. She had tried to keep her doubt in check, for Scott. But she knew that a figurative entry into the astral plane wasn’t going to be enough, and now they had less time than they had before. She won’t deny that she’s scared of what has to happen next ( _scared shitless_ are the words Stiles would use), she’s also filled with the knowledge that it’s _right_. It’s the one thing that is going to work.

 _Feel the fear, and do it anyway_. She can practically hear Stiles whispering it in her ear, the way he whispered it to himself in the mirror in the morning. He would have loved to hear her repeating it to herself now. She usually laughed at him about it, but now she’s using it to comfort herself, an odd bit of irony. She’ll never admit it to him, though.

“Stiles? I know you can hear me. Are you listening?”  Lydia’s rough voice is low in Stiles’ ear, whispered beneath the hum of the machines and the conversation she can hear in the room next door. The scratchiness is from years of banshee screams, but also from the days of little sleep and constant worrying, the fight taking its toll on her a little bit at a time. Stiles will be upset with her, worrying herself sick over him, but she can’t help it. It’s almost as if her body is shutting itself down the longer he is gone. She sits up and looks over him, fussing over the sheets that lay atop him, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, looking for anything to do with her hands. She settles for holding his between her, rubbing the pads of her thumbs along his long fingers.

“Do you want to know a secret?” She releases one hand from where it has been holding his, and brings it up to his face, lightly caressing the stubble that has been growing in random places on his face.  He never lets his beard grow long, complaining about the patchiness “that makes him look like a permanent 14-year-old”. She knows that when he wakes up he’ll want to cut it immediately. Thinking of it waters the small seeds of hope that reside in her heart. She leans in again to his ear, whispering conspiratorially. “I kinda like you scratchy. It makes you look sexy.”

She sits next to him on the bed and leans down, rubbing her fingers down his cheeks and back up again slowly, relishing in the feel of the individual pricks on the tips of her fingers. She’s used to seeing him rub his face in frustration in his office or while he’s on the phone, his own brain lost in thought, and she often wished she could replace his hands with her own, soothing his worries or his annoyances with the softness of her own skin. “Can you wake up and complain about it? Please?” She slowly rubs her soft cheek against the scratchiness of his, breathing slowly.

“Stiles. I’m sorry it’s taking so long. But you’re doing so great. I can tell you’re fighting. You’re so strong. It’s hard here, trying to figure things out without you.” She swallows the lump that is building in her throat. “But you’d be so proud of the pack. Scott is so determined. He’s protecting me fiercely, the way you always asked him to. Mason’s so smart and it’s so great to have him researching for us. Liam’s trying really hard—you should have seen him driving the ambulance. You’d have been so proud. We know what’s attacking you. We’re so close to getting you back. Hold on. I’m coming.”

“Lydia?” Scott’s anxiety-laden voice draws Lydia from the little bubble she has created around them, and she turns to see that he’s returned and is standing behind her. She sees the battle he’s waging internally as he wars with the words he wishes to say. Finally, he sighs against himself and settles on simply, “We need you.”

Lydia stands up, reluctantly letting go of Stiles’ hand and trailing her fingers down his face one last time. She turns to face Scott, who is looking at her with ever-present concern in his eyes. Lydia pulls her eyes away and brushes past him.

“You’re as transparent as glass, McCall. Just spit it out.”

“This is a fucking terrible idea.”

The jarring nature of his words manages to shock her slightly, her eyebrows raising in surprise. _I know_ , she thinks, her thoughts unguarded. But she refuses to acknowledge it, to admit her fear. She shakes her head to clear the doubt away, and steels her eyes to him. “We have to go to the astral plane to get to Stiles. Do you have any better ideas, Mr. Pack Leader?” Her voice drips with sarcasm, and she recognizes the hurt that crosses Scott’s face with her words. On one level, she knows she’s being unfair. He lost his best friend just like she did. But he knew this could happen. If the first plan doesn’t work, they have to go with the second.

“I’m sorry that my concern is bothering you, _Martin_ , but I just think that killing you to get Stiles is the very definition of a terrible idea. There has to be another way. I’ve lost my best friends too many times. I can’t lose you, too.” His words falter at the end, and he turns away from her, scrunching up his eyes.

Lydia’s heart breaks at the sight of him. Under his bravery and his commitment, Lydia knows the price that this life has paid on Scott’s life. He’s never complained about it. He’s just taken it on the way he always has. Only Lydia can tell how much it causes his heart to break in the same places over and over, creating scars that will never heal, a constant reminder of the pain of loss he endures every time one of his friends is hurt...or killed. She wishes she had the ability to take his pain. To put her hands on his chest and feel the veins within her swell with the hurt he holds deep within himself. She knows she can’t, so instead she places her hands around his waist and pulls him close.

“Scott. You aren’t going to lose me. I’m going to get Stiles, and then you’re going to save us. The three of us—you, me, Stiles—we’re tethered together. I’m counting on you to be strong enough to pull all of us back. The way you’re always strong. The way you always save us.”

He wraps his arms around her finally and holds her, the deep breaths in and out of his chest squeezing her tight. It’s a different fit with Scott. He’s shorter than Stiles, but broader and stronger, and Lydia always seems swallowed up in his comfort, the way he holds her close like he’s wrapping her in a cocoon of safety. She doesn’t want to let go, but the fight calls them, and he’s the first to break away when he hears the rest of the pack filing back into the room.

“Deaton needs to talk to us.”

“About godai?” Lydia directs her question to Deaton, who carries his tablet in and lays it at the foot of Stiles’ bed, where everyone has gathered.

“You know of it.”

Lydia shrugs slightly. “I studied it in the Traditional Belief and Folklore course at Stanford. They were woefully undereducated in the faculty, if you want my opinion.”

“ _You_ took a class on traditional belief and folklore?” Mason questions, incredulously.

“I just sat in on the class during my lunch hour. The professor was out-of-date on the modern implications of lycanthropic psychosis, but some of it was interesting.”

Scott, Mason, and Liam all smile amongst themselves and Lydia shrugs her shoulders. She had never apologized for her overachieving intelligence before, she isn’t about to start now.

“What did you say before?” Scott asks. “Did you say, ‘Go die?’”

Lydia can’t help the laugh that bursts out of her mouth. They all chuckle for a minute, the tension of the moment easing with Scott’s confusion. They haven’t laughed in weeks, and it feels good, if only for a moment. “It’s _godai_. Godai says that everything in the physical world—from our bodies to other living creatures—are made of five elements: earth, water, fire, wind, and void.”

Deaton speaks up. “In the astral plane, Stiles and Peter are only made up of one of the building blocks: spirit. I have a theory that if we’re able to bind them with the remaining elements, we’ll be able to pull them into the physical realm, where Peter’s body will manifest itself as a physical one.”

“Then he can be caught,” Liam says excitedly.

“And he can be killed.” Scott says with finality.

Lydia doesn’t miss the looks of surprise that cross the faces of Liam and Mason. Even Deaton’s eyebrows raise. Scott isn’t one for issuing the finality of death upon anyone. He’s always the one issuing the second chances, usually with a chorus of dissent around him. But Lydia understands this time. Peter’s had too many chances. It’s time to end this.

Mason asks, “But what about Stiles? What’ll happen to him?”

Deaton looks to Lydia, who gestures for him to continue. “This binding of the elements...it’s all theoretical knowledge. No one’s ever tried this before. If I’m correct, when Stiles is bound with the elements, his spirit should return to his body here. The problem is that we aren’t sure of Stiles’ brain functions after his cardiac arrest—his spirit may return to his body, but his body may not be able to support him. He may never wake up at all. I just...don’t have any solid answers.”

There are a few heavy moments of silence, then Liam speaks. “So this ‘binding them with the elements’. What’s that mean exactly?”

“It means we use something to represent each one of the elements, and we wrap them around Stiles and Peter. That should allow Lydia to hold on to them and Scott can hopefully pull them back into this physical realm.”

Liam’s eyebrows raise. “Does anyone else hear a whole lot of ‘maybe’ in this plan?”

“When you’re dealing with a theoretical action, you have to go with your best guess. Thankfully with this pack, I’m pleased to say our theoretical guesses are better than most.”

“So, what do we use for these elements?” Scott asks.

As if on cue, a series of loud _cracks_ and blinding lights break the silence of the room. The pack scatters, seeking safety. Deaton and Mason dive behind Stiles’ bed. Lydia, Liam and Scott jump in front of it, between it and the door, Lydia’s only thought of protecting Stiles. She fills her lungs with air, preparing to scream to defend him. Scott pulls Lydia behind him, his instinct to keep her safe still first and foremost in his mind.

Liam is in full shift, his yellow eyes glowing brightly, a low growl erupting from his lips. Scott’s red eyes glow bright, and Lydia feels his claws extend onto her skin, holding her behind his body as he crouches to attack. Everyone’s eyes zero in on the main door. It swings open violently, and the crackling sounds deafen their ears, blinding light pouring into the room. The entire pack has to shield their eyes against the light. Lydia can hear Scott and Liam’s growls erupt into full roars of warning.

The crackling sounds and the blinding light are slow to fade, but when the light is finally low enough to see, an enormous black wolf lopes in, stopping a few feet from the entrance. Scott and Liam tense to strike, but suddenly the wolf’s eyes glow bright blue in contrast against it’s jet-black fur.

“Derek!” Lydia exhales in relief, the arrival of their friend releasing some of the tension. Scott and Liam don’t speak, but instead nod at the sight of the wolf, who inclines his head in return. They don’t relax their stances, though, low growls still emanating from their chests. They still sense incredible power, a danger in the air that invades their senses. The wolf turns to look back at the door to the figure that has just stepped into the room.

“I think I can help with that.”

Lydia’s breath catches in her throat and her hands fly to her mouth as she stares at the figure in the open doorway. She turns her head quickly to look at Scott, whose red eyes fade and widen in shock. He takes a hesitant step forward, his mouth gaping open in surprise. Lydia hears his shuddered inhale, and the gasp that follows fills the room.

“Kira?”

 


	9. A Spirit Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all, for your patience with this chapter. I thought it'd be 5k, and it's....definitely not. Hopefully you'll forgive the extra wait.
> 
> I am so incredibly thankful for the love that I have been shown with this story. Unbelievably, there is only ONE CHAPTER LEFT. Plus an epilogue. Because, closure.
> 
> All of your love, encouragement, live-tweeting, messages, kudos, and comments have meant more to me than you will ever know. I am incredibly blessed to be in this fandom.
> 
> Please forgive me for my use of Celine Dion. And my em-dashes not being formatted correctly. I could've changed them, but I just dgaf, I guess. :)
> 
> Much love.

 

 

****************

I just wanna start again, and maybe you could show me how to try.  
Maybe you could take me in, somewhere underneath your skin.  
What do you say to taking chances?  
What do you say to jumping off the edge?  
_Never knowing if there’s solid ground below or a hand to hold or hell to pay.  
_ What do you say?

                            “Taking Chances”, Celine Dion

*****************

 

There’s a loud heartbeat thrumming in Scott’s ears. It’s beating incredibly fast. Strong, too. It’s pulsing in his ears, overwhelming him so it’s the only thing he can hear, the only thing he feels. There had been lightning and thunder moments before, loud noises and crashes and blinding light. But now there’s only _bah-bum-bah-bum-bah-bum_ in his ears that drowns out all other sound.

It takes him a moment to register that it’s his own heartbeat. The rapid sound pounding through his body registering the shock of the moment quicker than his mind can catch up. He can’t remember being this stunned by anything before, not even when Stiles and Derek had shown up to fight against The Faceless after high school.

He hasn’t seen her face in...his thoughts drift as he tries to remember. Almost 20 years. _Can it really have been 20 years already?_ As his mind clears, he starts to feel the other things in the room. The eyes that stare at him and gauge his reaction, the hitched breathing that indicates the surprise from the others in the room, but he can’t seem to tear his own gaze away from the almond-shaped eyes that have latched onto his gaze and won’t let go. His breath catches as he remembers those eyes from so long ago, her long hair curtaining around her face, her firm but gentle grip around his shoulders as she held him tightly.

Her eyes hold the answers to so many questions, and he can’t bring himself to look away, even as he hears low voices around him begin to murmur quietly.

 _She looks the same,_ he finds himself thinking as he stares back at her. Her eyes, always so expressive and youthful, still hold the same life, the same joy. He takes in a deep breath, and her scent washes over him, and although time has passed, she still smells the same. It’s a scent that he hasn’t been able to match in the last 20 years, the smell that is so specifically Kira: a beautiful mix of cherry blossoms and jasmine and the slightest hint of old paper, like she can’t erase from her fingertips the smell of the old books she reads. As the scent floods his senses, he is hit with a wave of memory, washing over him and filling him with a warmth he didn’t realize he missed until he caught it again. Rides on his old motorcycle and kisses in the dim light of Derek’s loft and her soft hand caressing his shifted face. It’s like… It’s like his soul has been restless, waiting for that scent, and he finally feels settled now that it’s back.

He blinks finally, the dryness of his eyes indicating he has been staring for a long time, and when he blinks he finds the spell between them broken, as she finally notices the others in the room.

Lydia is the first to break the silence.

“Kira, I can’t believe it’s you!”

Scott sees her move forward quickly and gather Kira in her arms, both of their tiny frames belying the power that radiates into the space around them.

As Kira moves, Scott sees the changes. They’re slight, the kitsune within her slowing down her aging the way it does his own, but he notices. The faint lines that now appear around her eyes when she smiles, the way she carries herself with more grace and confidence and less like the awkward teenager learning her way around her powers. She has a faint scar on her cheek and a few on her arms, implying stories he finds himself immediately wanting to hear. There’s a bright red streak in her hair that she has tucked behind her ear, and it stands in sharp contrast to the black hair that’s cut just above her shoulders. He watches as the others in the room crowd around Kira, giving welcomes and hugs to their new guest. He sees Derek shift into human form, and Kira produces clothes for him out of a bag he didn’t see her carrying.

She’s just as beautiful as she has always been. More so, if he’s honest. He wants to run to her, to wrap her up in his arms that have been empty and aching for too long. But he remains frozen, unsure of what to do. Should he hug her? Should he give her a handshake? Does he acknowledge the past? Did she wait for him? And in a quieter voice, _Does she know I waited for her?_ His thoughts run through his mind like water, one flowing into the next, until they blend and swirl together. He stares intently at her face and his breath hitches in his throat as their eyes lock together once again. He finds himself getting lost in them, the deep brown pulling him in and surrounding him with warmth and comfort like a blanket.

There’s a throat-clearing noise, and he hears someone say his name--was that Mason?--and he notices: everyone is staring at him, expectantly. Although, Lydia is staring at him in amusement, which he doesn’t understand. Someone--Mason--must have asked him a question. _What did they ask him?_ He can’t remember hearing anything at all, and he wracks his brain trying to grasp onto any coherent thought until he blurts out,

“You smell the same.”

Liam cracks first, a snort erupting from his nose, and the titters from the rest of the group break the silence as Scott flushes with embarrassment. Kira’s head ducks as she blushes red, too, and she looks back up at him with humor alight in her eyes. Wow, he missed her. She clears her throat and repeats the question that he had apparently missed earlier.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

His mind whirs to life again, wondering about what she wants to say, and he can only dumbly nod at her and gesture to the room next door.

“I hate to say it, but...don’t be too long, guys,” Mason calls after them. “We have a Stiles to rescue.”

Scott leads them into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. He’s trying to find the words to say as he turns to face Kira again, when he is suddenly struck by her body launching into his own, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him close, his face suddenly covered by strands of long, black hair. He stumbles back for a moment, caught completely off-guard, and his back hits the door before he has a chance to right himself. Scott feels her body pressed against his, her hands tangling around the shoulders of his shirt, face buried in his neck. He hears the chuckles from the others through the door, but he can’t bring himself to care.

There was an _oof_ that escaped his lips when Kira slammed him, the surprise of the action far outweighing the weight of the body thrown against him. And now, he can’t help the sigh that he emits as their bodies fit together just as he remembers from his dreams. His forehead leans down to rest on her shoulder, taking in her scent with full, deep breaths.

“Hi, Kira.”

She pulls back from him, and he sees the shock in her eyes, undoubtedly stunned by her own boldness. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She starts to pull away from him, but the coldness he feels in his arms is immediate, and he doesn’t want his arms to ever feel that way again. He pulls her back against himself, and wraps her in another hug. He feels her sigh against him.

They hold each other for long moments, time slowing down. Their breaths align, and Scott can’t help his fingers that begin to trace patterns on her back. He wants to memorize the feel of her beneath the pads of his fingertips, doesn’t ever want to lose the feel of her again. He feels her moving slightly, and he releases his hold on her. As she pulls back, she smiles at him. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“I can’t believe you’re _here_.” He can’t help one of his hands from moving to her hair, brushing it back from her face and lingering over the red streak. “Are you really here? I’m not dreaming?”

He feels a tight pinch on the back of his neck, and he flinches slightly. Kira blushes.

“You’re not dreaming.”

“I…” Scott has no idea what to say next. He’s flooded with a thousand questions at once and it paralyzes him. How does he ask her everything he has wanted to know for the last twenty years? He can’t possibly expect her to have waited for him. She was fighting for her life, fighting against the kitsune spirit that threatened to consume her--she probably hasn’t given him a second thought. Kira seems to see the struggle playing across his face, because she takes his face in her hands.

“Scott. There’s _so_ much to say. It’s as overwhelming for me as I can see it is for you. I know that when I left you talked about waiting for me. But I know that it’s not fair to expect that things have stayed the same for you. I had no idea that it would be this long before I came back. I’ve been keeping up on things around Beacon Hills, and when Derek told me what was happening, I knew I needed to help. I don’t need to stay when this is over--I don’t want to interrupt your life. But I had to help.”

His mind explodes with more questions. But there’s a thought pounding through him as loudly as the heartbeat thrumming in his ears again.

“You could _never_ interrupt my life, Kira. You...” Scott takes a deep breath, his heart continuing to pound wildly. He has no idea what to expect here, but time is running out for his best friend, and if he’s learned anything through this, it’s to capitalize on the moment. “You have always been a part of my life, even when you weren’t here.”

He hears Kira’s breath hitch, her eyes widening as they look into his intently. “Does that mean...you waited for me?”

He feels the warmth running up his chest and into his neck. He breaks eye contact for a moment as he thinks of what to say. “I dated other people. I was even almost in love with Malia once. But my heart has always belonged to you, Kira.” He looks back into her eyes, so wide and open and as youthful as he remembers. His heart swells at the thought of her standing in front of him again. His hands hold the sides of her cheeks, and his thumb rubs across her cheekbones gently. “You gave me your tail, but you’ve had my heart the whole time.”

A smile creeps across Kira’s face slowly until it is blindingly full.

“Wow,” she whispers.

Scott leans close to her, and his breath fans across her face as he whispers, “Yeah,” before bringing his lips to hers.

He’s kissed other girls, even had a few committed relationships here and there since she left. But nothing had filled the Kira-sized void that she had left behind. And now, as their lips press together and their breaths mingle and he pulls her flush against him again, the hole that had been in his heart for twenty years seems to fade more and more until he pulls away and realizes that suddenly, it’s like his heart had never had a hole at all.

They break their kiss, and Kira stares back at him in awe. “We have _so_ much to talk about.”

Scott nods in agreement. “I know. I hate that we can’t stay behind this door for the next seventy-five hours, but my best friend is in serious trouble right now.”

“And I can help.” Kira steps back from him, laces the fingers on her right hand through his left, and squeezes. “Let’s go save your best friend. Together.”

Kira looks up into Scott’s eyes, and he can’t help but smile at the warmth he finds there. There will be plenty of time for catching up. For questions and answers and...everything. But he already feels stronger with her hand wrapped in his own.

“Together.”

********************

Lydia’s brain is going a mile a minute. She would get like this occasionally at Stanford, but mostly she was like this when she was researching with the pack. Examining every piece of evidence, reviewing every creature in the Bestiary, plotting through attack or capture strategies. This feels like one of the many nights in Scott’s clinic, poring over the history of Azeban trickster spirits, or capture techniques for the Longma, or a Piasca demon and its weaknesses.

But this is also wildly different. Because it isn’t the town in danger, or a territory being threatened, or a food source being jeopardized. This is her husband’s _life_ at stake. The man she has tethered her sanity to is slowly disappearing right in front of her eyes. And so the things that normally set her problem-solving strategies abuzz are now like a hoard of angry hornets buzzing wildly in her ears and blocking out her ability to be calm and composed. She can’t avoid the noise, she can’t drown it out, it just gets louder and louder and her control over herself gets more and more lost.

She knows that her death is imminent. It was obvious to her hours ago, before they even tried the hypnosis. She knows that for Stiles to have any chance, she will have to drown. She will have to be killed.

If Stiles were here, she’d have hell to pay right now. To say he’d be pissed off about the current course of action would be the understatement of the century. He’d never let her do this if he were here.

But he isn’t here. And therein lies the problem. If he were here, the buzzing would be quieter. The noise would lessen. She’d feel less like she was about to fall off a cliff into a vast nothingness, and instead just feel like she was walking along the edge of a great discovery. Instead she feels like she is minutes away from a complete collapse.

Scott and Kira have been in the other room for about ten minutes now. Every minute that goes by Lydia feels the threads connecting herself to Stiles get looser and looser, unravelling strand by strand. The buzzing keeps her from grabbing them and pulling them taut, her own mind so overwhelmed by the static that she’s unable to concentrate on the bond with her complete focus. As a result, it slips away more and more.

She tries to shake off the noise. Her entrance into the astral plane--her death--will be useless if she doesn’t figure out how to bind Peter and Stiles. They need to figure out the pieces of _godai_. Water. Fire. Air. Earth. Void. She has some ideas, but it depends on the others.

But mostly, it depends on her. Instead of defeating death, she will have to embrace it. She’ll have to hold its hand and welcome it as a friend. She’s been a harbinger of death for so long, but she hasn’t had to face her own mortality so closely, so absolutely since coming face to face with it in high school. Not many can guide people through to the other side the way she does. Even fewer have seen the other side of death and returned to tell about it. This entire plan depends on Lydia being able to quell the fear that has been building and threatening to take her down to a place she cannot return from.

She can only hope that when she opens her eyes on this side of death again, his eyes will be the first things she sees.

 _If_ she opens her eyes again.

 _Will anyone scream for me?_ she wonders. A shudder runs through her that she can’t contain.

She senses Deaton’s eyes on her, but she consciously ignores it. He’s anxious. She doesn’t need to be a werewolf to sense it. He’s been around this world too long. He had committed to retirement, but you don’t really get to retire from the supernatural. It’s a calling you don’t get to dismiss. The exhaustion has taken it’s toll on him, and the lines around his eyes, the gray in his hair, are proof of the things he has seen.

She looks around the room. They’re all waiting. Mason is on the phone--checking in with Corey, no doubt. Liam and Derek are talking quietly in the corner. Liam seems to be filling him in on their progress--God knows how that’s going. Deaton seems to notice as well, and goes to help.

Lydia’s eyes trail to the door where Scott and Kira disappeared. There had been a bump on the door shortly after they went in, but it had been quiet since. Lydia has a guess about what is happening. God knows she had talked to Scott about it enough. The guilt that had followed him for years as he tried to move on from Kira was surely bubbling below the surface. Lydia had told him there was no shame in trying to move on, but she also knew Scott, and knew how he took everything to heart. It had been a long time. Scott deserved happiness. Lydia hoped Kira was able to give it to him.

At that moment, the door opens, and Scott and Kira emerge, hand-in-hand, faint smiles on both of their faces. Even though her head is buzzing, she can’t help but smile at the pair. _Hopefully someone will have a happy ending in all this_.

Everyone gathers back at the foot of Stiles’ bed, looking expectantly at Lydia. She takes a deep breath.

“Derek, has Liam filled you in on our plan?”

Derek clears his throat, “Umm, yes. I have the basic idea. Are you sure about this, Lydia? Peter is my uncle, after all. I should be the one to go in after him.”

Lydia waves him off. “Stiles is my _husband_. And Peter has a connection with me--he tried to turn me into a werewolf, remember? If I get in there, he’ll follow me.” She gestures to her bandaged shoulder. “He’s not going to miss the chance to try to kill me again. I need you for when we come out--you’ll be the strongest one here, and you’ll need to keep Peter contained.”

“But,” Derek continues, looking over at Stiles’ body for a moment before turning back to Lydia. “Stiles wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want you to sacrifice yourself for him like this.”

Lydia sees the concern in Derek’s eyes. She appreciates it, the way he is looking out for her in the same way that Stiles would. But there’s no other choice. She looks at him with firm eyes, and he stares back at her until he sees that there will be no breaking her resolve. His eyes get a resigned look, and he nods as she turns back to speak to the group.

“ _Godai_ are the five elements--water, fire, air, earth, and void. If we bind Stiles and Peter together with these five elements, then they should both be transported to this physical world. We will need to trap Peter right away--Liam and Derek, you’ll need to physically contain him, and Mason, you should be ready to make a mountain ash barrier. Then we can work out what to do with him.”

“What _I_ should do with him,” Derek’s voice has turned to steel, his eyes focused on Stiles.

Scott moves to put his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do it by yourself, Derek. Peter has affected _all_ of us.”

Derek shakes his head. “He’s my responsibility. I’ll take care of him.”

Scott looks sideways at Lydia, who shrugs her shoulders faintly. “We can cross that bridge when we get to it. Right now, we need to work on the elements.”

“So, you’ll be taking these _godai_ into the ice bath with you?” Liam asks. Lydia nods at him. “I don’t understand how the fire and water thing will even work.”

Deaton speaks up, “It doesn’t need to be a literal fire. We simply choose items that are a representation of each. When we did this before, the items that were chosen had specific emotional resonance. For this to work with Stiles, I think we need to think in a similar manner. Stiles is vital to the binding of the pack, right?”

“Ohh,” Mason breathes out excitedly. “By using physical representations of the individual pack members’ spiritual elements, Lydia can bind Stiles and Peter together.”

“Precisely.” Deaton agrees.

“Wicked.”

“The physical representation of our spiritual elements?” Scott questions. Lydia can tell he’s trying hard to catch up. He’s tired. They’re all tired.

Deaton explains, “We are in this plane because we have parts of all five elements within our bodies. They keep us grounded here. The spirits of Stiles and Peter are missing some of the elements. Stiles is your water element. Emotion, defensiveness, adaptability, flexibility. All features of who Stiles is and how he contributes to the pack. The spirit of Peter is the void element. Void is pure energy. If we can tie the two of them together with the remaining three elements, Lydia will be able to pull them across the divide between the astral plane and the physical one.”

“So, we’re looking for air, fire, and earth,” Scott finishes.

“Air is growth and expansion of the mind. I believe that is best represented by Lydia.” Deaton says.

“My banshee scream travels through air and sound waves, so that’ll be how I tie them together.” Lydia states, a hardness in her voice that she can’t hide. She’s looking forward to unleashing her power on Peter. She just hopes she can keep Stiles safe in the process.

“I’m Fire.” Kira mentions. “Drive and passion and movement is the best way to describe it. Plus, I’m partially made up of lightning.” She smiles cheekily at everyone.

“And Earth?” Scott asks.

Lydia smiles. Even in the darkest times, Scott underestimates his own worth. “Earth is _you_ , Scott. Earth is stability. You’re the rock of the pack. _You_ are earth.” Lydia says, looking at him with care and grabbing his hand. Scott smiles faintly and squeezes her fingers in return.

“We need a physical representation from each of us. I can carry them with me into the ice bath so I have all five elements represented. I’m representing air with my banshee scream. Stiles and Peter themselves are representing Void and water. So we just need fire and earth.” Lydia looks pointedly at Kira. “Do you have it?”

Kira smiles knowingly. “We’ll have to ask Scott.”

Scott looks momentarily confused. He looks first at Lydia, then at Kira. “Do I have what?”

“My tail,” Kira smiles gently at him. “Do you still have my tail?”

Scott’s eyes register the request immediately, and his eyes soften as he grabs Kira’s hand again. “Of course I do.” Scott walks to his desk in the corner of the room and moves it slightly. He bends down and removes a panel in the floor, revealing a safe.

“Whoa!” Liam says. “All the time we’ve been meeting here, and I had no idea that was under there!”

Scott smirks. “That’s the whole idea.”

He fiddles with the dial until it clicks, and opens the safe upward, pulling up on the heavy door. He reaches down and pulls out a bundled, black cloth. He closes the safe again, turning the dial and returning the panel to its place in the floor.

He carries the bundle with great care, eyes locked with Kira the entire time. Lydia feels her heart constrict as she feels the tension in the room escalate. She feels like she’s watching an incredibly intimate moment, and she wishes she could give them the space they need, but it’s just impossible at the moment. Sometimes the most intimate moments occur amongst friends.

“You told me to keep it safe. To guard it with my life.” Scott says in a low voice, as if to keep this moment as private between the two of them as possible. “It has been my honor to do so.” He hands Kira the bundle, her hands shaking as she takes it from him. She gently unwraps the cloth to reveal the shiny obsidian star.

Kira’s eyes are watery as she looks up into Scott’s face. She whispers, “I knew I could trust you.” She leans in and gives him a gentle kiss, and Lydia has to look away, the yearning and the desire in her heart too overwhelming to be a witness to such a moment. She feels her own eyes welling with tears, and she stuffs them down, unwilling to let them fall.

“So that just leaves you, Scott.” Deaton observes.

“I don’t have anything like this,” Scott says, gesturing to the kitsune tail.

“For these purposes, I think your blood will serve our needs,” Deaton says. Noticing Scott’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “Not a lot--just a few drops should do just fine. Liam can help. The alpha/beta bond will add strength to the blood sacrifice.”

Liam seems surprised, but pleased to help. Scott holds out his wrist to Liam, who takes it in his two hands. “What do I do? I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Just bite him enough to make it bleed, and then let drops fall on the tail before he heals,” Deaton suggests.

“Okay,” Liam looks warily at Scott. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s okay, just do it.” Scott steels himself for the pain. When Liam bites into his wrist, to Scott’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch.

Kira extends the tail underneath his wrist, and lets the blood drop onto it, coating the top. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Liam releases Scott, his healing ability stopping the bleeding almost immediately.

Lydia’s heartbeat ramps up quickly. Scott must sense it, because he turns to Lydia. “Are you okay?”

Lydia wants to tell him the truth. She wants to tell him she is so scared she can feel the scream of her own death building up in her throat, clawing its way out. But she keeps it from Scott because he won’t let her go through with this if she does. She takes a few deep breaths to steady herself, then manages, “I’m fine, Scott. Let’s do this.”

At that moment, the heartbeat monitor above Stiles’ bed starts beating erratically again. Both Scott and Lydia watch it for a moment, and, realizing that it’s only getting faster, spring into action.

They are out of time.

 

*********************

 

_“Happy birthday, dear Laurel. Happy birthday, to you!”_

The sounds of the song disappear into applause as the little girl with caramel skin and black ringlets smiles shyly at the five candles aglow on the cake in front of her. She glances up at her mom, who gives a reassuring nod. Laurel turns back to her unicorn cake and blows out the candles, the room erupting in applause again as she gets them all out in one try.

“Okay, who’s ready for some cake?” Braeden asks the other party guests, and a chorus of “ _Me!”_ follows her as she takes the cake back into the kitchen, looking like an odd Pied Piper with a trail of 3-year-olds behind her.

It looks like a completely normal birthday party to an outsider. Rainbow decorations, a unicorn cake, the pile of presents in the corner. But the guests at this party are anything but normal, and the birthday girl is no exception. Stiles noticed the yellow tint to her irises right before she closed her eyes and blew out the candles, the way Laurel effortlessly bounded around her friends to the cake, her balance and quickness the result of some supernatural genetic gifts bestowed to her by her werewolf father.

Stiles feels a weighty hand on his shoulder, and he looks over to see Derek smiling warmly at him. “Hey, man. Thanks so much for coming today.”

Stiles smiles warmly back, turning to shake Derek’s hand. “Yeah, dude. Of course. Never thought I’d be coming to your daughter’s birthday party.”

Derek’s smile spreads across his face slowly, as if he can’t believe it, either. “That makes two of us. I’m glad it worked out with Lydia’s schedule for you both to come.”

“Oh, man. You have no idea. I barely see her right now. She just got back from a big lecture circuit, so she had a week off before her research starts again.”

“Is she doing more in the mathematics field?”

“Right now, yes. She has a little more time at Stanford, but then I think she wants to move on to medical research.”

“Medical research? What kind?”

“Well, there’s a consortium at UC San Fran that is researching frontotemporal dementia. She wants to get involved there.”

An insistent tug on Derek’s arm interrupts their conversation, the insistent _Daddy!_ drawing Derek’s attention to his daughter. He lifts her effortlessly, settling her on his hip. “Yes, my dear?”

“Daddy, is it time for presents?"

Derek’s laugh rumbles in his chest, eliciting a smile from Stiles, as well. “Almost, Laurel. It’s almost time for presents. Have you said hi to my friend Mr. Stiles yet?”

Big green eyes lock onto his own before she smiles shyly at him and says, “Hello, Mr. Stiles.”

Stiles smiles at her in return. She may have Derek’s eyes, but the shy dimples are all Braeden. “Hello, Laurel. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Laurel leans into Derek’s ear and whispers something to him. Derek’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs again. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He won’t bite like Uncle Peter.”

Laurel keeps her hold around Derek’s neck and leans forward, whispering conspiratorially. “Mr. Stiles, did you come with Ariel?”

Derek grins at Stiles’ look of confusion. “We are into fantasy creatures around here. The fact that you brought her favorite mermaid to a unicorn party didn’t escape her notice.”

Stiles chuckles under his breath. Laurel had gone wide-eyed when he and Lydia had walked into the party. Stiles understood the impulse--it’s exactly how he feels when he sees Lydia, too--but he wasn’t sure what had prompted it. Now he understood. He leaned in to Laurel, his own voice dropping, playing along.

“Why, yes I did. You know, she’s a good singer. You should ask her to sing ‘Part of Your World’ for you.”

Laurel’s eyes open wide again, and she looks at Derek excitedly. “Can I, Daddy?”

“Sure, sweetie. Go on.” Laurel jumps down from his arms, landing softly despite her tiny size and the long drop from Derek’s hip. Derek and Stiles watch her go, searching the party for a glimpse of Lydia.

 

***********************

 

_“Yawn, yawn, yawn.” Peter’s sarcastic voice breaks the two of them out of the memory. Stiles can sense that he’s weak. His breath is coming in and out in gasps, a reflection of the struggle that the two of them have been locked in for so long. “We’re back to these ridiculous memories? Where’s the pain, Stiles? Where’s the heartache that I love?”_

_“Birthday parties and friends don’t give you what you want?” Stiles’ voice is strained, the talons digging into his chest stealing his breath. Stiles is pleased to note that keeping Peter out is working. His strength isn’t as wiped out as it has been in the previous memories. They are almost on equal ground now. He feels like he can fight better. If only he weren’t tied down; it’s harder to fight this way. Because he can’t fight physically, he has to focus every part of his mind, every bit of his core, on keeping the doors shut in his memories. But it’s been working. He’s given Lydia more time._

_Lydia. His attention shifts to her. Where is she? He goes to feel her through their connection, and his eyes widen when he realizes: he can’t feel her. With horror, he recognizes that by focusing entirely on keeping Peter out, he has lost the sense of his connection to Lydia. He immediately begins to panic, and shuts his eyes trying to search for the thread that has connected them together._

_He must convey his panic to Peter somehow, because without warning, he feels the talons tighten and a door in his memory jolts open._

 

***********************

 

He can’t stop his knees from shaking. They bounce erratically, the steady rhythm occasionally broken when his muscles tire and he switches the bouncing to the other leg. He hears a sigh from the chair next to him, but it isn’t a “stop it already, you’re making me crazy” sigh like it usually is. It’s a “will they please hurry up already I’m as nervous as he is and that’s saying something” sigh.

His fingernails are in shambles. He notices--too late--that he’s bitten the skin around one thumbnail down to the quick and it’s bleeding. He stops it with a finger from the other hand for a moment before the anxiety ramps up again and that hand ends up in his mouth, working the skin around his other nail. There won’t be anything left to chew at this rate. _Where the fuck are they? Why is this taking so long?_

He glances to the seat next to him. Lydia is sitting stock-still. The only sign of life is from the deep inhales she is taking and releasing slowly. Her ankles are crossed primly, her hands clenched in her lap. He aches to take them in his own, to soothe her, but he knows that he is incapable of it right now. If anyone were to look at her from the outside, they wouldn’t see anything unusual--just a woman waiting. But Stiles sees what lingers just beneath the surface: the exhaustion around her eyes, the tense line of her lips, the rigidness in her shoulders, the unnaturalness of her erect posture. _She’s barely holding it together_ , he thinks. _God, she’s the strongest woman I know._

The last 36 months have led up to this moment. The fun of trying to make a baby--at first--but the repeated heartaches when the tests turned up negative. Then the appointments and injections. Then it turned worse--he hadn’t known it could _get_ worse--when the tests started coming back positive to only end in tears and blood on the bathroom floor. Over and over again.

He can’t handle it anymore. His anxiety is through the roof, but he can’t stand seeing her like this. Every instinct in him is yelling at him to soothe her, to do _something_. He reaches his hand to her shoulder and places it there gently. She gives a slight jump at his touch, and he mumbles an apology as she turns her head to look at him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says lamely. It feels stupid, even as it comes out of his mouth, and he berates himself for even trying to say anything. Because he has no fucking clue if it’s going to be okay or not. It’s wishful thinking on his part, to hope for positive news after so much heartbreak. It’s insensitive, really, and she’s probably going to just hate him for sticking his stupid foot in his stupid mouth again.

The office door opening pulls him from his thoughts, and instinctively he grabs for her hand and holds onto it like a lifeline. She covers it with one of her own, and he can feel the moisture in her palms.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stilinski.” The doctor walks around the desk, placing a folder on the top and taking a seat in his tall office chair. He opens a folder and takes a deep breath.

“I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”

********************

 

_“NO!”_

_The loud yell wrenches through the stillness, and Peter is thrown to the side with the force of it._

_“Oh, but this memory looks like it’s going to be so_ good _, Stiles. If you’re throwing me out of it so quickly, then it is_ exactly _the type of thing I have been looking for.”_

_Peter’s eyes are alight with excitement. Stiles feels the talons tighten again, and Stiles refuses to give in, holding the door shut. He grits his teeth and bores his eyes into Peter’s own, lifting his head off of the pillow to get eye-to-eye with Peter._

_“Get the fuck out of my head.” Stiles wrestles control of the door out of Peter’s grip and slams it shut._

 

*******************

 

Derek turns to Stiles. “I didn’t know Lydia could sing.”

“She can’t,” Stiles smiles. “She’s gonna kill me later.”

Derek bursts into laughter right along with Stiles. “God, I’ve missed seeing you both. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to your wedding. There was a big peace summit in Modesto that we’ve been working on for a year that I couldn’t miss.”

Stiles waves his hand. “No worries. That summit was important for securing the area. We got your card, though. It was really nice, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. We really did want to be there. It was basically a fairy tale come to life, after all.” The twinkle in Derek’s eyes makes Stiles chuckle.

“Don’t I know it. I’m a lucky man.”

“You guys starting a family soon?”

There it is. The million-dollar question. Stiles isn’t surprised it’s asked. He and Lydia have been together long enough now that people forget they’ve only been married three years. But it’s the next logical step in their relationship. To be honest, the answer would vary depending on who asks the question. If Peter asks, the answer is a firm “It’s none of your goddamned business.” Stiles has never been good at hiding his distaste for Peter. But it’s Derek, and Stiles can give Derek the honest answer. He won’t judge.

“I...I don’t think so.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think we’ve decided that we’re okay with it just being us.” Stiles can’t help his eyes drifting across the party to where Lydia is kneeling on the other side of the room, a smile on her face, but consternation in her eyes--something that Laurel obviously doesn’t notice, as she is gazing at Lydia with wonder and gesturing wildly. Stiles doesn’t know what they’re saying, but he’s sure Lydia’s knowledge of _The Little Mermaid_ is being tested.

Derek draws Stiles’ attention with the question, “Are you okay with that?”

Stiles pauses before answering. A couple of years ago, the answer would have been no. He wanted a family. Not a big one, but two kids sounded really nice to him. He didn’t really care much whether they were boys or girls--though having a mini-Lydia appealed to him on a deep level--but definitely more than one. Having Scott as his figurative brother before gaining him as an actual brother gave Stiles enough perspective to know that having a sibling would be the absolute best way to grow up.

But now? It’s more complicated. That desire is still there for him, and he has talked about it with Lydia, of course. But the look that crosses Lydia’s eyes whenever it is brought up is a deal-breaker for Stiles. It’s _fear_. And if there’s anything that has given Stiles purpose in this life, it’s keeping Lydia from being afraid. He refuses to be someone who asks Lydia to confront her fear for something that isn’t that important for her. So he doesn’t push it.

And honestly, he’s okay with it. Their life is pretty perfect. They’re happy without kids. So he’s happy not having them because she doesn’t want them.

“Yeah, I am. We’re happy. And Lydia’s work is so incredibly important. The things that she wants to do, trying to cure FD, is more important than having kids of our own.”

Derek eyes him suspiciously, listening carefully to see if he’s telling the truth, but Stiles knows his heartbeat is steady. Because he isn’t lying. He really is okay with their decision.

“You guys would make pretty cute kids. But it makes sense. Lydia’s smart enough to take down frontotemporal dementia by herself, I have no doubt. Those scientists at UCSF won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“That’s the plan.” Stiles smiles and looks back at Lydia, who has finally satisfied Laurel’s queries and is slowly inching across the living room in his direction, murder in her eyes. She gets stopped by Braeden, who starts up a conversation, and Lydia looks at him pointedly.

Derek leans in, and Stiles can hear the humor in his voice. “Looks like Braeden just saved you from an early death.”

Stiles smirks in return. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to thank her later.”

A knock at the door draws Derek’s attention, and he pats Stiles on the back and moves to open it. Stiles turns to see a harried Malia stumble in. Derek grabs the car seat out of her arms, and Malia smiles at him, gratefully.

“Werecoyote strength, and these damn car seats are still super awkward and heavy. I wish I could just carry the pup in my mouth, but Sasha doesn’t approve.” Her head inclines behind her, to the woman that follows her through the doorway. She’s tall and dark-skinned, and her eyes roll at Malia’s words.

She’s carrying two large presents and a foil-covered pan. “Hmm...I wonder why.”

Derek grins. “I’m sure she has her reasons.” He gives both Malia and Sasha side-hugs and ushers them into the family room.

“Aunt Malia! Aunt Sasha!” A blur brushes by Stiles’ arm, and Laurel slams into Malia’s legs, nearly knocking her over.

“Laur-Bear! Happy birthday! I’m so sorry we’re late.”

“But we brought presents!” Sasha chimes in.

“Ooh, presents! Come and see my cake!” Laurel pulls on Malia’s hand, but Malia pulls back.

“Hold on, sweetie. I need to say hi to some old friends.” Malia releases her grip from Laurel--who’s attention is quickly diverted with the presents--and she takes a couple of steps towards Stiles, who envelops her in a hug.

“Hey there, stranger,” she says warmly over his shoulder.

“Hey, Malia. Long time, no see.”

“You got that right. You haven’t been to see us at all since you two moved up here. You avoiding us, Stilinski?” Malia’s eyes glisten with amusement.

“You think I could live in Palo Alto and avoid interactions with the Hale Pack? Yeah right.”

“You’re right. You’re a newlywed. We’ve been avoiding you and your lovesick stink for three years.”

“Ha. You must have a pretty strong scent these days, too.” His eyes indicate the baby that Derek has pulled from the car seat, and the woman who has stepped up behind Malia and wrapped her arms around her waist.

Derek steps in front of Malia, cradling the baby in his arms. He quips, “You have _no_ idea. Be glad you don’t have werewolf senses. First the lovesick vibes from these two, and then the baby vomit from this one. It’s been unbearable.” He holds the baby out to Stiles, “This is little man Tate.”

Stiles is caught off-guard for a moment, but quickly stifles his surprise and takes the baby that Derek is handing him. Derek smiles. “Tate, this is Stiles. Don’t get too close to him--he’s nothing but trouble.” Derek winks at Stiles, then heads into the kitchen where Laurel has been caught sticking her claws into the cake icing.

Stiles stares at the little man he’s holding, who is staring back at Stiles with wide, brown eyes.

Malia grins at the sight of them. “I’m not sure who is more scared right now.”

Stiles chuckles. “I think it’s definitely me. Here, little guy. Let me turn you so you can see your mama.” He adjusts baby Tate until he is facing Malia, and the baby instantly coos.

“Tate’s our son, he’s six months old. And this is my wife, Sasha.” Stiles shuffles the baby to his left arm, and extends his hand to her.”

“Nice to meet...wait. Sasha? Like…” His finger points between Malia and Sasha. Malia rolls her eyes.

“...Yeah, yeah, like the Obamas. Like we haven’t heard that before, Stiles.” She grins at him. “Look, do you mind holding him? We want to eat with both of our hands for a change.”

Stiles chuckles. “Of course not. Go eat. Sasha, it was nice to meet you.”

Sasha smiles at him. “It’s nice to finally meet you, too, Stiles. Take care of our man, okay?”

Stiles gives her a thumbs-up as she and Malia hurry towards the food table. Stiles shuffles over to a space on the living room floor, and carefully lowers himself and Tate down. He turns the baby around to face him again, and laughs at the confused look he gets in return. “You know, my boss looks at me like that a lot, too.” Stiles lowers Tate to the floor, bending his legs and testing his sitting skills. “Well, look at how good of a sitter you are!” Stiles leans forward and tickles Tate’s tummy, relishing in the giggle that bursts from his mouth. Stiles can’t help the grin that breaks over his own face, and he tucks his finger in the palm of little Tate, whose chubby fingers grab on tight and don’t let go.

“Ooh, good grip, little man! You got your mom’s strength, huh?”

He feels like it should be weird, sitting on the floor playing with Malia’s baby. But it isn’t. It just feels...normal. Stiles is relieved. It’s so nice to have some part of his past that isn’t strange or awkward. They’ve all grown up. As Tate continues to squeeze Stiles’ finger, Stiles looks up to see Lydia watching them.

He notices her eyes linger on them longer than they normally would, like she has trailed off into a fugue state in the middle of the party. Stiles is about to get up and see if she needs help, when she seems to come out of it. She shakes her head slightly, frowning for a moment, then catching Stiles’ eye and smiling at him faintly. Then she gets wrapped up in a hug by Malia, and Stiles is left with his thoughts. _What was that about?_ Stiles is so used to reading Lydia so well, it’s unusual to get an emotion he doesn’t recognize. And this one was so brief, so blink-and-you-miss-it, that he isn’t sure if he didn’t imagine it at all.

He’ll have to ask her later. Right now, his thoughts are interrupted by a sharp stabbing in his index finger, where he learns that apparently Tate’s canines are coming in with gusto. The drool is running down Stiles’ finger and onto the floor.

“Oh thanks, buddy.”

A little while later, Sasha takes Tate with a grateful thank you to Stiles, and tells him to get some cake, “But avoid the brownies--I think Malia snuck some rabbit in them.”

Stiles gets up from the floor, shaking his legs to restore the blood flow. He makes his way over to the table, where Lydia is standing, watching the party with a gentleness in her expression. He tucks his arm around her, and she leans into his side, resting her head on his chest. Stiles’ face drops to the top of her head, and he whispers into her hair, “Are you alright?”

Before Lydia can answer, the front door slams open, and a very disheveled, very drunk Peter steps in with a loud, “Happy Birthday, Laurel!”

The entire party freezes. Eyes widen in horror, and Derek immediately stalks across the living room as Braeden rounds up the smaller kids into another room.

“What are you doing here, Peter?” Derek’s voice is laced with steel, his hands on Peter’s chest, keeping him from entering the room any further.

 

********************

 

_“Are you kidding me with this shit? I remember this day,” Peter sneers atop Stiles’ chest. “I don’t need to re-live my glory days with my pathetic family.”_

_Stiles grunted, the exhaustion of fighting with Peter starting to take its toll. “Then you should’ve thought about that before. I happen to like this memory.”_

_“No. Take me back to the doctor memory.” Peter leans down, getting eye to eye with Stiles. He fills his body with air, and releases a bellow that startles Stiles just enough to lose the grip on the door in his memory._

_“NOW!”_

 

*********************

 

The grip on his hands tightens, and he looks over at Lydia, who is staring straight ahead. God, he wishes he could keep her from this. There was a part of him, probably a stupid part, that was hoping this was all a terrible nightmare. That they would wake up one day, pregnant and happy and picking out completely unnecessary baby shoes from the Adidas catalog. But no, life sucks and fate seems determined to screw them over, and they’re sitting here in this damn doctor’s office and the doctor is dishing out the worst news possible in a voice that Stiles hasn’t heard since he was a little kid and his mom was sick: the voice of pity and regret. He wants to drown it out. He hates that voice. But worst of all, he wants to keep it from Lydia. He never wants her to have to hear that voice. He wants to throw himself in front of her like a shield, with the darts of bad news thudding into his skin and tearing and ripping his own body instead of her heart.

But he can’t. So he holds onto her hands tightly and turns back to the doctor, who is continuing his explanation.

“We had hoped that the steroid treatments would combat the NK cells in your body. It looked hopeful with the three pregnancies that resulted after your treatments began, but your immune system seems to be even more active than we initially thought. The cells in your body will continue to attack and remove anything that they think shouldn’t be there...including the unborn babies you carry.”

The doctor looks reluctant to continue, but his gaze shifts to Stiles. “Unfortunately, combining Lydia’s NK cells with your lower sperm count means that your probability of carrying a baby to full term is less than 1%.”

“Are there any other options?” Stiles hears Lydia’s voice. It’s small and quiet, and his heart breaks. He has wanted to keep her strong, keep her protected, and he has failed.

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen NK cells as strong as yours from anyone before. I’ve sent some of your samples to another lab to be analyzed. But I’m afraid at this point in time, there simply isn’t anything we can do.”

He hears the small noise in the back of her throat and sees her head drop.

“Doc? Could we have a few minutes?”

“Of course.” He gives them a sympathetic look and walks around the desk to his office door. He stops when he opens it and turns back to them. “If it’s any consolation, your NK cells will keep you from ever getting sick. They’re extremely viable--we actually think they can be used in cancer treatment. But we can talk about that in the future. I’m so sorry.”

As he closes the door, Lydia breaks. Stiles feels his heart crumble inside of his own chest as he kneels in front of her and she collapses on his chest. He’s never wanted to be a werewolf, but he wishes he were one now, so he could take away her pain. It doesn’t work like that, but he wants _something_. He wants her pain to flood through his veins and fill him up. He wants it to paint his skin a dark grey, the lines creeping through his body and permanently coloring who he is. He wants to be scarred forever if it means keeping Lydia from ever feeling pain like this.

But he can’t. He’s just a human. He can’t take her pain or make her understand that this isn’t her fault. He can only cry with her. He can only hope to hold her up so she doesn’t fall and break under the pressure. He brings himself up on his knees, and he registers the slight twinge of pain, the scars on his knees just fading, but the pain lingering.

 _It’s the same as the pain she’ll have on her heart forever_ , he thinks. Though he has tried, in that moment he knows that he has failed to protect her.

With that, he cries with her.

 

********************

 

_“I’m going to kill you.” Stiles sobs out. The brokenness that comes from this memory is one of the most painful moments of their life. He can’t help the tears that fall from his eyes at remembering it, but he won’t let Peter steal any more of it from him._

_“How do you expect to do that?” Peter releases Stiles’ chest. “You can’t even get out of this bed. You’ve been a whipping-boy your entire life. A punching bag for the supernatural. I’m truly enjoying getting my chance. So you and Lydia couldn’t have kids after all. Poor, poor Lydia. Your inadequacy must have really been a blow to your marriage.”_

_Stiles is seething. It had been a strain--Lydia hadn’t talked to him for a few days after the appointment, but it was because she was mired in her own grief, not because she was mad at him. Seeing her struggle with her grief was almost more than he could handle, and he had almost gone out of his mind with worry for her. But they had gotten through it as best they could, and they were moving on with other options._

_Not that Peter needs to know that. No. Peter needs to stay the fuck out of his life and his memories. No more of this._

_“You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you, Peter?”_

_Peter seems to come to himself. “Hmm...as a matter of fact, I would. Why don’t you show me the fights you two had about it then?”_

_Stiles is ready this time. He had barred the doors in his mind, and when Peter’s claws dig in yet again, Stiles wrenches him into the birthday memory yet again._

 

********************

 

“Well...I wanted to wish...my favorite niece a...happy birthday, of course!” The words slur together--Stiles isn’t sure how much wolfsbane-laced alcohol Peter must have consumed before arriving, but it must have been a _lot_ to make this kind of impact.

“She’s _not_ your niece.” Derek is pushing against Peter, who shoves his hands away sloppily. His eyes roam the room and lock on Sasha, who is holding a sleeping Tate.

“And I came to see my grandson, of course.” Sasha visibly tightens her hold on Tate, and Malia wraps her arms around them both, flashing her blue eyes at him and growling.

From another room, two blurs emerge and stop between Peter and Malia. Twin girls, not older than ten, create a wall between Peter and Tate, their eyes flashing gold and their fangs lengthening.

“Tally, Corina, stay back,” Derek warns them. Their claws extend and they hold them in an attack pose, daring Peter to come close.

 _Derek’s other daughters_ , Stiles realizes, as he watches the scene unfold. Peter’s presence is obviously unwelcome. And from the reactions of everyone in the room, uninvited, as well. He hasn’t been welcome at anything Hale-related in a long time. It’s a wonder how he figured out about the party in the first place.

Stiles watches Peter warily, but soon his attention is distracted by Lydia, whose nails have dug into his shirt tightly and are working their way into the skin on his chest, as well. He tightens his hold around her waist, and pulls his gaze away from Peter and down to his wife, whose eyes are wide. He feels her shallow breaths against his chest.

There have been many nights where the traumas that they have both endured in the waking hours have overtaken their dreams, turning them into nightmares. Time and time again they have leaned on each other for strength as they have screamed and thrashed themselves awake, memories of the pain and the fear and the imprisonment clawing their way out of them in the darkness. So many of those moments have been as a direct result of the person who is drunkenly fighting his way into this party, and Stiles can feel the fear mixed with rage that is trembling through Lydia’s body right now.

His head drops to her hair and he whispers calmingly, “It’s okay, Lydia. He isn’t going to hurt you. I won’t let him hurt you.”

She leans back to look into his eyes. Hers are steeled, like the trembling is just her body’s way of holding itself back against the desire that is flooding her muscles. “I want to kill him right now.”

Stiles squeezes her tight. “He’s not worth it, Lydia.” He teases her to distract her, “And if you scream, Laurel won’t ever look at Ariel the same way ever again.” He wraps her tightly again, whispering in her ear, “It’s okay, Lydia. I’ve got you.” He takes deep breaths that align with hers, and he closes his eyes and concentrates on feeling her heartbeat through his body. He drowns out the sounds of the room until all he can feel and hear is Lydia, her body calming, her breath regulating, her tremors subsiding.

He hears the door slamming a moment later, and he looks over to feel the collective sigh that leaves the people in the room. Derek has managed to get Peter out of the house.

Braeden emerges from another room. “I’m so sorry, everyone. Derek will take care of his uncle. Laurel? Are you ready to open presents?”

The mood of the room is tense, and Stiles appreciates Braeden’s efforts to distract everyone. Laurel had looked on the verge of tears a moment ago, but she wipes her eyes and smiles, the promise of presents overtaking her fear. Everyone moves around her as she sits in a place close to the pile of gifts.

She is in the middle of her second gift when Derek quietly reenters the party. Stiles looks to him questioningly, and Derek returns his look with one that says, _He’s gone_. Stiles didn’t realize how tense his entire body had been until that moment, as he relaxes completely, knowing that Peter is gone.

When Laurel’s gifts are opened and some time has passed, Stiles knows it is safe to go. He takes Lydia’s hand and they say their goodbyes.

“I’m so sorry about Peter,” Braeden apologizes. “I’m not sure how he knew about the party in the first place.” Derek comes up behind Braeden, extending his hand to Stiles, who grabs it in a handshake.

“Thanks for inviting us,” Stiles says to the both of them. “It was really great to see everyone again.”

Derek raises his eyebrows and chuckles. “Not _everyone_ , I’m sure. But really.” He looks at them both. “Stiles, Lydia, thank you for coming. We should get together more often.”

 

*********************

 

_“How quickly I was ignored.”_

_Stiles laughs. “When are you going to get it through your head that no one gives a fuck about you?”_

Peter sneers at Stiles, hatred nearly dripping from his pores. He dives back into Stiles’ chest, but Stiles is ready for the defense this time, and throws them both back into the memory.

 

*****************

 

The drive back to Palo Alto is quiet. Lydia stares out of the window, and only answers with a faint _mmm_ when he asks her if she had a good time at the party. He worries and fidgets the entire way home, hoping that she’s okay, that Peter’s sudden appearance hasn’t opened too many old wounds. He would help her heal them, like he always did, but he would rather them not appear in the first place.

They arrive back at their apartment, and as they get inside, Lydia grabs Stiles’ hand and pulls him to the couch. She pushes him gently down onto it and curls into his lap, her head resting on his chest. He curls his arms around her, and the worry that has been simmering the entire drive back from the Hale place boils over. The worry seems to flow out through his hands, and if it weren’t for her weight on his legs, they would be bouncing erratically. As it is, his hands clench and unclench around her. He can’t be quiet anymore. He needs to make sure she’s okay.

“Lydia, I had no idea that Peter was going to show up today, or we never would have gone. I never want to see him ever again, and it kills me that he managed to find a way there. Derek and Braeden didn’t invite him, and they were pissed off. Derek’s having a harder time controlling him. I never would have told them we were coming if I had known--”

“--I wanna have a baby.”

“--because you know that I want to keep you safe at all times and keep you away from all of that shit that we’ve been dealing with our entire fucking lives…” Suddenly, what Lydia said breaks through his tirade, and he stops and blinks a few times before tilting his head to look down at her. “Wait, what?”

Lydia’s head has been tucked into Stiles’ chest as he rambles, but at his question, she raises her head and looks at him, resolve in her eyes.

“I want to have a baby with you, Stiles.”

His mouth opens and closes, opens and closes again. He tries to think of words to say, but she may as well have hit him square over the head with one of those huge, cartoon hammers. The shock of her statement has rendered him completely speechless, and he can only stare back at her, searching her eyes for meaning, searching for what has changed the entire outlook for their family.

Lydia just looks back at him, her face calm but determined. He’s still stunned, but he’s finally able to stop gaping at her like a fish.

“But...but...we aren’t going to have any kids. We’ve talked about this. It’s okay, Lydia. I’m happy being with you.”

Lydia smiles shyly, shifting her body so she’s straddling him on the couch, sitting on his knees. She places her hands on either side of his head, and begins to play with the hair on the back of his neck.

“I know we talked about it. But seeing you tonight with Tate… I just found myself... _longing_ for it. And I realized: I want that. A family. With you.”

Stiles’ hands reach to rest on Lydia’s hips, his long fingers lying gently on her lower back. “But, Lydia…” He isn’t sure how to say what he wants to say. How to acknowledge her fear without giving it a foothold in her mind. The last thing he wants to do is make her think she is weak and fearful. He never wants to diminish her strength. “I don’t want you to change your mind about this because you saw me playing with a baby. I’m okay, really. I know that having a baby is....” He struggles with how to say it, and his voice trails off. It’s frustrating to not have words when literally his entire life he’s had too many words. And now, when he wants to assure Lydia that their relationship is perfect the way it is--that _she_ is perfect--that they don’t need anything else in their lives, he has no idea how to say it without confronting Lydia with her fear. He refuses to do it, and so he is paralyzed. But she knows. He can’t hide things from her. He never could.

Lydia looks at him with soft eyes and caresses his face with her fingertips. “It’s okay to say it, Stiles. I’m afraid.”

He shakes his head at her, wanting her to ignore the truth, but she holds his head still. “And you’re right. Having a baby scares the shit out of me.”

Stiles can’t help his arms that flail as he responds. “I know! And I won’t be a part of anything that makes you afraid! I’m not going to be the cause of that. It’s my job to take care of you. And putting you in a situation that terrifies you? That’s the _opposite_ of taking care of you.”

Lydia looks at Stiles’ chest. Her eyes stare at the buttons on his shirt and her hand slides down his chest and begins to fiddle with them. “I was afraid today.”

“I _know_ , and I’m so sorry--”

“--ssh!” Lydia’s other hand went up to his mouth, gently covering it and stifling his words. “Let me say this, Stiles.” She lowers her hands to her lap, takes a deep breath and looks in his eyes again.

“I was afraid today when Peter came to the house. He’s done so many horrible things to me--to us. And I was afraid for Tate. Peter wants to be in his life, and it would just ruin him. He’s innocent. But as we were in that room, I noticed that I was the only one that was afraid for him. I looked around and Derek, Malia, Sasha, even the twins--no one at that party cowered when Peter showed up. They stood between Tate and danger. They became braver and stronger as a pack. For him.”

Lydia’s hands are shaking as she lowers her eyes again to Stiles’ chest. “I’ve been a different version of afraid my entire life. My father leaving, becoming a banshee, losing you to the Wild Hunt--I’ve always been afraid of something. But I’ve dealt with all of those fears and become stronger. I don’t make them go away by hiding from them, and not taking risks.”

She lifts her eyes back to his, and he marvels at the strength he sees in them. “You’ve taught me so much about bravery, Stiles. I want you to teach our baby how to be strong and brave like you. You pull me in and I’m a little more brave. It’s really something. It’s fearless.”

He cocks his eyebrow at her. “Did you just use Taylor Swift lyrics on me?”

She smiles at him. “Sweetheart, our entire life is the Taylor Swift discography.”

There’s a silence between them that’s teeming with emotion as Stiles lets the words Lydia has said roll through him. He’s still in shock. But the boiling anxiety that had filled him earlier has faded into a growing excitement, and he can’t contain the slow grin that breaks over his face.

Lydia’s shy smile grows with his own, and she leans her forehead into his. “Whaddya say, Stilinski? Wanna make a baby with me?”

Stiles exhales slowly, his breath making the tendrils of hair surrounding her face flutter gently. His hands slide up her back and over her shoulders softly, like a sudden movement might make her aware of her decision, might make her change her mind. But the calm that has descended over Lydia has manifested in her body, and she can’t hide her surety from his touch. His hands slide from her shoulders to the sides of her face, his fingertips lightly threading through the hair at the base of her scalp, his palms cupping her cheeks so gently.

“Oh, Mrs. Stilinski, it would be my pleasure.”

 

*********************

 

_“Enough!” Peter’s yell surprises them both. He pulls his claws out of Stiles’ chest, blood dripping from them._

_“We didn’t think about you at all, Peter. Seeing your family defend against you was the catalyst for Lydia wanting to have a baby. She wanted the love that came from being a mother and having a family.  You tried to ruin her--ruin both of us--but you’ve failed the same way you have always failed.”_

_Peter raises an arm and hits Stiles across the face. The blow stuns Stiles, his eyes blinking in surprise, his face stinging. He looks up at Peter, whose eyes are welling with tears. Stiles realizes, moments before it happens, that this version of Peter might be the most frightening yet: one that is feeling something for the first time, one that has nowhere to go with his rage._

_He doesn’t have time to steel himself against it before Peter unleashes his fury with a cry and starts to pound into Stiles with his fists. Stiles tries to cover himself, but he is held back by his bonds. He throws his hips up, trying to buck Peter off of him yet again, and for the first time, he feels the bonds loosen. He takes punch after punch from Peter, but he scrunches his eyes and steels himself against the blows and pulls with the last of the strength he has left and feels his wrists slip free, finally._

_His hands fly to the front of his face to protect himself from Peter’s fury, and he manages to block a few but his body is betraying him, his strength fading. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he manages to shove Peter just enough so that he falls back against his knees. Stiles sits up, feels in his heart the cord drifting around in the space around him._

_He grabs quickly and screams, “LYDIA!”_

_Peter regains his balance and tears into Stiles again, the fight between them that had been mental for so long finally becoming physical. Stiles’ wrists scream with the effort, the blood pouring steadily from his chest, but he realizes that this is it. This is the end of the fight. Either he goes or Peter goes. There’s no scenario where they both come out of this alive._

_He hopes Lydia gets to him in time._

 

*****************************************

 

“Alan, we have to do this now!” Lydia is yelling, her voice shrill against her fear. The loud scream of her name in her heart had jolted her in terror. Stiles’ heart monitor seems louder than it has ever been, and Lydia didn’t think that was possible before, but now the spikes are like techno drum beats in their speed, and Lydia knows that this is the last time it will happen. She has to get to him. Now.

Bright flashes come from Kira as she gathers lightning and forces it into her tail, electrifying it. She hands it to Lydia with a smile and a slight shock in her fingertips.

Mason is tossing mistletoe into the water, Liam and Scott are dumping ice, and Lydia steps into the pool. Stiles’ wedding ring presses into her thumb as she clutches tightly to the tail. She sits down into the tub and looks up at Scott, who throws aside the empty bag he was holding and stands directly above her, looking down.

“Go get him, Lydia.”

She nods at him and grabs the hand that he places on her shoulder. She sees his face blur as he shoves her under the water, and she can’t bring herself to close her eyes. She keeps her gaze on Scott, even as the ice cubes and the mistletoe obscure her vision slightly. Her heart pounds a rapid beat, her brain fighting against every instinct to save herself, to push Scott off, sit up, and breathe. She takes a deep breath in and it burns, a million knives stabbing into her lungs, and her eyes widen in panic, but she feels Scott’s hand squeezing her shoulder, and she relaxes into her death as her view of his face blurs into blackness.

 

******************


	10. A Spirit Defeated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, can we just take a moment to acknowledge the wild shit show that was the rest of 6b? And acknowledge that it didn't mess up this fic AT ALL?? Like, I have literally no idea how that happened, but I am thankful. Canon-compliant tag for the win!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience. This chapter is stuffed to the rafters. I wanted to end the main story strongly, and I hope you like it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos and talked to me about the story on tumblr and twitter. You all are my heroes, and this story is for you. Let me know what you think.

 

How can I just let you walk away, just let you leave without a trace  
When I stand here taking every breath with you?  
You're the only one who really knew me at all.  
How can you just walk away from me,  
When all I can do is watch you leave?  
Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain and even shared the tears.  
You're the only one who really knew me at all.  
So take a look at me now, oh there's just an empty space,  
And there's nothing left here to remind me,  
Just the memory of your face.  
Ooh take a look at me now, well there's just an empty space.  
And you coming back to me is against the odds and that's what I've got to face.

                        -Against All Odds, Phil Collins

  
  


*****************

 

The darkness had descended slowly, like turning a dial down to no power. It was quieter than Lydia had thought it’d be. She can’t identify how long the blackness had her in its grip, only that she remained cognizant of its hold, her soul keeping her aware of the situation even as her body succumbed to death. It was surreal, losing her ability to breathe, her ability to move and see and smell—all of her senses shutting down slowly, one at a time—but her  _ soul _ . Her soul remained. It’s in her soul that she feels the pull of the string. She senses its grip deep within herself, like it’s spider-veined around her bones and marrow, holding her together like sinew. She follows the thrumming of the line, her soul winding the thread, tighter and tighter, faster and faster, until it wrenches her entire body upward and into consciousness.

Lydia’s face emerges from the water first, her eyes opening wide, her mouth gaping open with a tremulous gasp. The water and ice slosh around her face, and as she gathers feeling in her extremities, she pulls herself up and out of the tub. Her hair is plastered to her neck, her shirt clinging to her slight frame. She steps out, the water splashing and pooling around her bare feet. The cold that is housed in her lungs chokes her, and she bends over with a sudden fit of coughing, leaning against the wall of the tub with one hand, gripping Kira’s tail in the other, water expelling from her with each forced breath out.

Her coughs echo in the empty space around her, the sound bouncing off of walls that she can’t see, her surroundings throwing off her equilibrium with their opaque whiteness. Lydia stands upright, looking around to determine her location. It looks like it could be the clinic, albeit a completely empty one, devoid of furniture and monitors, all the trappings of medical life. The blankness of the neverending white is blinding her vision. 

_ Where is Stiles? _

She strains her ears to listen for any sounds at all, only hearing the dripping from the water off her legs, the tap of her feet in the puddles as she turns in circles.

_ There _ .

It’s a noise. It’s faint, coming from somewhere over her shoulder, and she whips her head around to focus her hearing. She leans toward the sound, her feet nearly silent, her breaths still coming in short gasps, but sounding like thunder in the cavernous space.

Every moment brings the faint sound into clearer focus. She finally realizes: it’s a fight that she’s hearing. Yells and blows, rattling and talons tearing into skin.

_ Stiles _ . 

Lydia breaks into a run, each step like a thousand needles piercing into her skin, the icy immersion reluctant to loosen its hold on her body. She wants to stop, to shake her arms and legs back to warmth and normalcy, but she refuses to give in to the weakness. She wills her body to obey, to focus on the tether and where it’s guiding her to go.

She winds her way through hallways and passages, the terrifying sounds of struggle getting louder and clearer. The tether between she and Stiles pulling her closer and closer, until she rounds another corner and her body fairly jumps to attention, the cord snapping tight between them like the drawstring on a bow and arrow.  _ He’s here _ . Her eyes scan the space, and the scene is finally, horribly, laid out in front of her.

It’s the only room she has seen with any kind of furniture, and it’s just a solitary hospital bed. It’s rattling and shaking on its legs, shifting with the movement of the two figures atop it. The white space is endless around her, but broken here, terrifyingly, with dark splatters of red. With horror, Lydia realizes that it’s blood. It paints the bed and the floor. Her eyes widen at the sight of it, and she wonders, for just a second, how much blood there is left to be spilled.

She takes all of this in within the space of a moment. The movement and the thrashing is a blur compared to the stillness of the rest of the room, and it takes Lydia’s brain a few beats to register it. When she finally does, she’s stunned.

Stiles is tucked into a defensive position under Peter, his clothes torn, the red pouring from his wrists and from other deep scratches on his face and arms. His chest is solid red, and Lydia can see darker patches of it in a pattern on his chest—evidence of Peter’s repeated attacks.

But Peter isn’t faring much better. HIs sallow skin and distended belly are littered with bruises and scrapes. His eyes are bloodshot and crazed, but only one is functioning—the left one is battered and dripping with a dark substance of its own. Something that must be Peter’s blood runs from his eye down the side of his face and drips onto Stiles below him. Peter’s long arms are extended straight in front of him, his hands wrapped around Stiles’ neck, and Stiles is struggling to remove them, his hands grasping and pulling at Peter’s wrists. Stiles’ face getting redder and redder with the effort.

When she sees his face, Lydia can’t contain her gasp.

Both heads whip in her direction at the same time. She sees two pairs of eyes widen at the sight of her—one set with amazement, one set with disdain. The distraction is enough for Stiles to get back an advantage. He shoves his hips up and to the side, unbalancing Peter. His leg wrenches free, and he kicks at Peter’s chest. Peter’s grip loosens slightly, but the force of his fall backwards pulls Stiles up into a sitting position. Stiles moves his arms to the railings on the bed and holds on as he shoves his leg again into Peter’s chest. This time, Peter can’t keep his grip, and his claws scratch the skin on Stiles’ neck as he falls backwards.

Stiles rolls over the top of the bars and slumps to the ground, scrambling for purchase on the blood-smeared floor, coughing and sputtering. He manages to pull himself up just as Peter dives off of the bed onto Stiles’ back, his talons digging into the skin on Stiles’ shoulder blades. Stiles lets out a painful yell, the weight of Peter’s frame weighing him down, and he crashes to his knees,. 

A loud roaring rips through Lydia’s thoughts, drowning out everything else. It takes a moment for her to realize that the sound came from her own lips. She sprints forward the last few steps, kicking at Peter’s face and landing a perfect shot on the side of his temple. His eyes lose focus, and he stumbles back, landing sprawled under the hospital bed.

“Lydia!” Stiles’ voice scratches through his throat, evidence of Peter’s firm grip around his windpipe. He crawls away from Peter’s feet, where they were tangled together, and Lydia meets him halfway, sliding on her knees slightly as they crash together. A mangled gasp-laugh tumbles from Lydia’s mouth, and they wrap their arms around each other, messy and uncoordinated. Lydia can feel the tether between them pulling tighter and tighter until they are melded together. Stiles’ face is buried in the space just behind her ear, Lydia’s lips pressed into the underside of his neck, kissing every patch of skin that she can find while also pressing him into herself as tightly as she can.

“Oh my god, Stiles! I’ve got you. I’ve got you!” She tries to keep her voice contained, but she can’t help the relieved sobs that tumble out with her words. It feels like a million years since his hands were spanned across her back like this, clutching her close. She feels the front of her shirt getting soaked from the blood that covers Stiles’ chest, but she doesn’t want to let go. She moves her hands up and down his back, pressing firmly into him as if to reassure herself that he’s real, that she can touch him and feel his warmth against her. She breathes in deeply, the air coming out of her in gasps and washing over his skin. “You’re safe.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say  _ that _ , Miss Martin,” a raspy voice from behind Stiles says. “But I must say, it’s so nice to  _ see you _ again.”

Lydia’s fingers tighten into the back of Stiles’ hospital gown when she hears Peter’s distorted voice. If she didn’t know it was him, she would never have recognized him by sight—and even the sound of his voice is different—higher, more reedy. But now that her face is buried in Stiles’ throat, she can hear the little inflections in his voice that identify him. His form has changed, but it’s still Peter. Still the loathsome creature that has been haunting them for years.

Quickly, Lydia pulls back from Stiles, and she lowers him forward onto the floor next to her, his energy spent. She stands up and over him, positioning herself between him and Peter. She crouches low, her hands ready for a fight, her eyes watching Peter closely.

“You won’t hurt my husband anymore, Peter.”

Peter is pulling himself out from where he had tumbled under the gurney, untangling his limbs from the sheets that hang off the side of the bed. His long fingers, stained with blood, pull on the bed to give himself leverage to stand. Lydia notices how badly he’s faring—he and Stiles had been locked in a battle to the death. By the sound of the labored breaths coming from the two of them now, neither would have lasted much longer.

Peter’s body is beaten and battered, but she still feels his rage pouring off of him in waves. “But, my dear, we were having such  _ fun _ . Have you come to take his place? I’m sure I could find some wonderful memories in that pretty little head of yours.”

“You stay the fuck away from her,” Stiles wheezes out from behind her legs. She can hear him coughing and sputtering, her eyes flittering down for a moment to see him spitting blood.  _ I have to get him out of here, now,  _ she thinks.

“Come on, Lydia. Think of all we could do, you and I.” Peter slowly slinks toward her, one small step at a time. “We went on a journey together before, remember? Let’s go on another one.”

He is standing a few feet in front of her now, raising himself up to full height, wincing as he does so. Lydia is amazed. It’s as if he completely forgets the form that he’s in right now, the long limbs, the gruesome face splattered with the blood of her husband. He talks as if he’s still in his handsome human body, able to sweet-talk and negotiate his way out of every sticky situation, bribe and manipulate others to do his will. As if she would ever consider helping him.

She looks at him with revulsion. “Yes, you created me, Peter. But now? I’m going to destroy you.”

Peter’s charm melts away, and his face turns dark in a heartbeat. As he lunges for her with arms extended, talons spread wide, Lydia knocks him back with a focused scream that she forces from her lungs like a bullet. She concentrates on not using all of her power—a difficult task, to be sure, with Stiles wheezing and clutching the back of her legs like a lifeline—she wants to blow Peter’s damned face off. But they still need to get him out of this realm, or they’ll never be rid of him. He’d find a way to come back. He always does.

Peter’s body crashes into the gurney and slumps to the floor, unconscious.

There’s a gasp from behind her legs, and Stiles’ rough voice spits out, “God, you’re amazing.”

Lydia looks down at the raspy tone, and she drops back to her knees and gathers Stiles’ face in her hands. His eyes flick back and forth between hers, and she wants to weep at those whiskey eyes staring at her again like the sun came out. She drinks in the sight of him—she has thought several times over the last...who knows how long...that she would never get to see this face again. That she’d have to figure out how to fill the Stiles-shaped void he would leave in her soul. 

His breath is stilted and his skin is sallow and he’s lost weight and covered with blood, but he’s still alive. Barely.

She gently pulls his face towards her, leaning forward to meet him, and their lips press together so gently. Lydia wants to linger there, taking her time to press life back into his skin. But she has neither a werewolf’s ability to take pain nor the time to be able to do so. All too soon, she forces herself to pull away, trailing her thumbs along the hollows of his cheeks. She wants to memorize this moment, in the quiet of this spiritual realm, to imprint it on her heart forever.

“We have to get you out of here,” Lydia says, quietly. “Scott, Kira, Derek, and the rest of the pack are waiting for us.”

“Did you say  _ Kira _ ?”

Lydia looks to the floor behind her where she had dropped the tail to attack Peter. She lifts it for Stiles to see. His eyes widen at the blood-stained obsidian. “She came back. This is her tail. Can you feel it?”

Stiles reaches a shaky hand to touch the tail, and a tiny arc of electricity shoots out from it, connecting with his fingertips. His hand jerks away in surprise.

“Whoa.”

“We’re going to combine this with the rest of the five elements so that—”

“—Lydia,” Stiles interrupts her, his voice trembly and weak. She looks into his eyes, watery and scrunched in pain. “I—I don’t have much…”  He inhales shakily, then continues, his voice weakening. “I trust whatever you’re going to do. I just think...we need to do it quickly.” He collapses to the floor, eyes closed, the pool of blood under his chest slowly spreading wider out from him.

“No! No no no no no, Stiles!” She lifts his head, and his eyes open slightly, his breath coming in shorter spurts, and it’s like an electric shock to her resolve. She lays his head down gently and bolts upright to launch herself at Peter. He’s still unconscious, so she grabs onto one of his wrists—her hand wraps completely around the spindly limb, and she tries not to gag at how papery his flesh feels under the pads of her fingertips. She drags him back to where Stiles is lying on the floor. She hears Peter give a weak moan; he’s coming to. She drops next to Stiles again.

“I need you to spit on this, Stiles.” She holds the tail out directly under his mouth. “Come on, you can do it. Fight for me. We’re getting out of here.”

Stiles’ eyes open slightly and it takes him a moment to focus. But she sees his lips moving, and then open slightly, allowing a small trail of spit to leave his mouth and drop onto the tail. She arranges Peter’s body as close as possible to Stiles’, and drapes Peter’s arm over Stiles’ waist. Though the action makes her want to be sick—she never wants Peter close to her husband ever again—they have to be connected for this to bring them over to the physical world together. She cups his cheek in her hand, bending down to press a kiss to his temple.

“When you get back, Scott and the others are waiting.”

Lydia pushes herself up and notices Peter beginning to stir. She takes a few steps back, and Stiles’ head moves to follow her actions. When she is a few steps away, she directs her voice to him. 

“Hold on, Stiles. I’m coming right behind you.”

He nods imperceptibly and his mouth opens, the sound that escapes it barely audible above the pounding in her heart.

“Remember I love you.”

Lydia’s eyes soften. “I love  _ you _ , Stiles.”

She holds up Kira’s tail flat in her palm, out in front of her chest. She’s not sure what to do, but she feels a calm descend over her. The electric current the tail contains has been growing stronger and stronger the longer she has held onto it. She stares at it in her hand, wondering for a moment how to proceed, when suddenly it lifts from her palm, hovering, wavering slightly as if waiting for a command to strike. She sees the red blood from Scott and white saliva from Stiles shining on the surface, tiny electrical arcs jumping from point to point. Her eyes widen at the sight.

Then, her memory briefly flashes to the past: she sees a bullet and a Wild Hunt-controlled vision of Claudia, and she knows exactly what to do.

Lydia fills her lungs with air, and pushes a scream out, using her hands to direct the tail to where Stiles and Peter lay on the floor. It’s propelled forward by the force of her scream. The red of Scott’s blood brightens, and in Lydia’s eyes, it appears that the tail leaves a path of red behind it, like a jet stream lingering in the air long after a plane has passed.  Lydia’s scream continues, her hands curving in the air, and the tail arcs wide around Peter and Stiles, circling their position. An unseen force lifts the two bodies into the air slightly, and the tail changes course as Lydia’s hands move in circles, wrapping up and down, around their bodies faster and faster until the tail can’t be seen any longer, and all Lydia can see is the red path illuminated around the pair.

The path grows smaller around Peter and Stiles, squeezing their bodies closer. The movement seems to rouse Peter. When his eyes open, he is pressed tightly against Stiles, and Lydia hears him yell and clutch onto Stiles.

Lydia sees their bodies fading quickly as her scream fades out, and just as her long-held note ends, Peter and Stiles vanish completely, a loud crack of thunder and a burst of lightning erupting from Kira’s tail as they disappear. The tail falls to the ground, the red line vanishing as it collides with the surface.

The silence is deafening.

Lydia gasps for air and tumbles to the ground, crawling over to where Stiles had laid just seconds before. She picks up the tail, flipping it over and over in her hands, the tingling sensation, there before her scream, now gone. She looks around: the bed, the sheets and the pools and streaks of blood are the only evidence remaining in this other realm.

She would never have considered herself a praying person before today. But at this moment, she prays that Scott is ready.

  
  


**********************

  
  


“How long do you think she’ll be?”

Liam is at Scott’s side, his voice low. They’re both staring into the tub of ice water just in front of them, Lydia’s skin pale and ghostly under the surface. Scott hasn’t moved from where he shoved her under the water. He’s trying to ignore the rising flood of panic that’s inside his heart. On his other side, Kira’s hand is laced with his, and she’s been calm and steady throughout the wait so far, her eyes closed. He would think she was asleep if it weren’t for her occasional squeezes on his hand, whispered mumbles under her breath.

“Well, when we did this before, we were out 18 hours.”

Liam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Eighteen  _ hours _ ?”

Scott nods slightly. 

“Y—you don’t think it will take that long this time, do you?” Scott sees Liam’s eyes drift across the room to where Stiles is lying, and Scott’s own eyes move upwards to follow the path to his best friend. The erratic beeping from Stiles’ heart monitor hasn’t slowed, and Scott knows that the longer it stays like this, the worse it will be for him. The room has been cleared in the 20 minutes since Lydia went into the bath. The only things that remain are the hospital bed, his monitor, and the tub holding Lydia opposite him. Everyone stands around the room, waiting.

Scott feels like he’s been staring into the tub the entire time, willing Lydia to find Stiles quickly. Willing her to hold off Peter. Willing her to use the elements...somehow.

This whole plan is batshit insane. He doesn’t even know how Lydia plans to bind Peter and Stiles together. And he has no idea of the answer to Liam’s question. He just...has to have hope that it won’t take long, and that they’ll remain vigilant while waiting. Peter’s going to appear somewhere in this room. They have to be ready to take him out.

Scott looks around the room, his friends positioned randomly around it. They have no idea where Peter and Stiles will appear, so they had to cover the entire space. Liam is on his left, followed by Mason, positioned halfway between Stiles and Lydia. He’s in charge of the jar of mountain ash. From where he’s standing along the outside of the room, he should be able to throw the contents of the jar in a wide enough arc to trap Peter wherever he arrives in the space.

Stiles’ bed is on Scott’s right, and Deaton and Melissa are just next to it, watching the monitors with a concerned eye. Scott has no idea how bad Stiles will be when he comes back, and Scott has a bad feeling that he’s going to need all the medical help he can get.

Derek, stoically positioned near the door, has his arms crossed. He’s staring at Stiles’ bed, and Scott doesn’t think he’s moved since Lydia went under. Derek, who says he’s going to take care of his own uncle when he appears. Scott has no idea how he’ll be able to do it. Derek’s been hoping for Peter’s redemption for so long—will he be able to push all of that aside now? To take care of what needs to be done?

There’s a small part of Scott that fears what’s to come, as well. How do you prepare yourself to kill someone? He’s managed to keep his hands blood-free for so long. The thought of changing that, of making the conscious choice to end another life—it’s making his gut feel all twisted and uncomfortable. The only thing that keeps him from moving into full-panic mode is that it’s Peter. Peter, who has spent his entire life making his own, destructive wants and desires paramount over everyone and everything else in his life, even his own family. Scott can only hope that if the need arises, he’ll be able to make the choice that’s needed.

Scott feels a sharp squeeze on his hand, and Kira’s eyes shoot open.

“They’re coming.”

Scott straightens up, looking around the room but seeing nothing. He looks back at Kira quizzically. She releases Scott’s hand and points to the area next to Stiles’ bed.

“There.”

Everyone snaps to action. Mason grabs the jar, Liam and Derek move to an offensive crouch position. Scott moves next to Lydia’s tub, in front of where Kira had pointed. Kira is standing with her hand at her waist, near the hilt of her sword, ready for action.

There are a few moments of heavy silence, and then a resounding crash of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning crashes right into the space next to Stiles’ bed. Scott shields his eyes, the flash temporarily blinding him, and he sees the others around the room turning away, as well.

A loud crash sounds, and Melissa screams. Scott turns back to see Stiles’ monitors tumbling into the bed. He squints his eyes against the brightness just in time to catch a glimpse of Stiles’ body suddenly arching upwards and being thrown off the side of the bed onto the floor, where he lands in a heap of limbs.

Scott is momentarily stunned.  _ They made it. Both of them. _

Derek springs forward with a roar, untangling Stiles from Peter’s grip and dragging his body across the floor away from the other body.

“Mason! Now!” Scott yells. The creature that had arrived with Stiles was scrambling on the floor, grasping for Stiles’ legs as Derek drags him away, and Mason wrenches off the lid of the jar, arching the contents around the struggling figure, the black dust forming a perfect circle, enclosing the body within its grasp.

The figure howls in frustration, moving to pound on the mountain ash barrier, and tumbling backwards with the force of its resistance.

Scott watches the figure with horrid fascination for a moment until his attention is wrenched away by a shouting Derek.

“Scott! Get over here!”

“Liam! Keep an eye on it.” Liam extends his claws and looks at the yowling figure with menace. Scott sprints across to where Derek is laying Stiles flat on the floor, out of the proximity of the creature, cradling his head in his lap.

“Oh my god, Stiles!” Scott slides on his knees on the floor, scanning his eyes over Stiles’ body. There is so much blood. It seems to be everywhere. There are deep cuts on his face and all over his arms, but the worst are the almost-black patches of darkness on his chest. Scott extends his claws and rips the hospital gown down the middle and pulling it downward, exposing his bare chest.

There’s a loud gasp from Mason, who is standing behind Scott. “Jesus, what happened to him?”

Deaton strides purposefully to the cabinets on the far side of the room, pulling Mason along with him. He begins grabbing medical supplies from the drawers, handing some to Mason before loading up his own arms.

Melissa climbs over Stiles’ body on the other side. “We have to bind his wounds to stop the bleeding. Scott? Does he have a heartbeat?”

Scott closes his eyes for a moment, focusing his werewolf hearing. His own heart nearly stops as he hears nothing, and then…. _ there. _ The slightest tremor. It’s the weakest heartbeat Scott has ever heard, but it’s there. 

“Barely.”

Melissa lowers her head to Stiles’ mouth, turning to put her ear close. There’s a rattling breath that leaves his body, and as Scott hears it, he feels himself thrum with happiness and fear all in the same moment.

“He’s breathing, but it’s shallow,” Melissa informs them. “Judging by these wounds, my guess is a lung is punctured. I’ll need a tube, Alan.”

Derek grabs one of Stiles’ hands, the jet-black lines soaring up Derek’s wrists almost immediately, and he grimaces in pain.

Mason drops a pile of supplies next to Scott. He and Melissa busy themselves by wiping and cleaning the surface of Stiles’ skin, mopping up the fresh and the dried blood simultaneously. Scott tries to hold back the tears that prick his eyes as he realizes how much Stiles has been suffering. He’s almost been ripped apart. The wounds in his chest are jagged and torn, the flesh cut like ribbons. There’s white bone peeking out from some of the holes, and Scott finds himself praying that they aren’t too late. 

Deaton hands a tube to Melissa. She looks at Scott. “I’m going to insert this here.” She points to the largest wound, just under his ribcage. “You need to hold the wound open for me, then tape the tube in place. It should hold him over until we can get him better care.”

Scott and Melissa work in tandem, silent and focused. The only sounds they hear are the occasional gasp from Derek, the labored breaths from Stiles, and the frustrated screams from the creature behind them. They get the tube inserted, then wrap his chest with bandages and gauze. Deaton comes over with a couple of syringes, inserting them in the veins on Stiles’ neck.

“What are those?” Mason asks quietly, kneeling down next to Scott and pointing to the patterned wounds. 

Scott studies the pattern for a moment, then extends his claws and matches them to the pattern on Stiles’ chest.

Melissa whispers, “ _ Oh my god _ .”

They all stare at Stiles’ body. His heartbeat is still there, barely a whisper, and they watch his chest struggle to rise and fall. Scott grasps Stiles’ other hand and the pain leeches into his skin, turning his veins black as it seeps out of Stiles’ body and into his own. He clenches his eyes against the pain, gasping with the ferocity of it.

For a few moments, Scott and Derek take his pain. Scott wonders if Stiles has any concept of what’s happening. The questions from earlier start to flood his mind.  _ Will he wake up? Will he still be Stiles if he does? _ Scott locks eyes with Derek over the body, and they silently wonder together about what comes next, when, at the same moment, their eyes widen together.

His heartbeat starts beating stronger. A moment after that, he gasps a startled breath. Scott and Derek exchange hopeful glances. 

Scott leans down, talking lowly. “Stiles? You’re safe. We’re going to take care of you.” Stiles’ eyelids flutter, opening for a brief second to lock on Scott’s eyes, then slowly close again. Scott glances up at Melissa, who is giving him a relieved look, and he nods at her with a slight smile. She visibly exhales, and resumes cleaning the wounds on his chest, face, and arms.

It’s then that Scott notices the silence. He whips his head around to the creature, who is now crouched in the supernatural cage, holding up his claws pointedly. Its skin is a sickly, pale whitish-yellow, which makes the deep red that coats his fingers and trails into black drips down his arms all the more shocking. His hands are laced together, the two index fingers tented in front of his mouth, where he is smiling wickedly.

“You like my handiwork?” 

The voice Scott hears is nothing like Peter’s, but also exactly as he remembers. The malice, the disdain, the contempt for anything that resembles love and caring—all exactly how Peter treated everything in his life.

He’s made the decision of whether or not to kill him incredibly easy.

Peter is staring at him, with a smirk on his face as he kneels in his invisible cage. Scott wants nothing more than to wipe that sick grin off of it. To hurt Peter the way he hurt Stiles, ripping Peter’s skin to shreds and revealing the bones that hide nothing underneath, not a soul or any resemblance to humanity. Scott feels the rage building up within him. It’s like a fire that starts just behind his shoulder blades and spreads outward. Scott’s vision reddens, his fangs elongate, his claws tingling as they lengthen from his fingertips, but as he moves to stand, he feels a hand wrap around his forearm, sharp claws resting against the skin. He follows the hand up to Derek’s face, who is looking seriously at Peter.

“This is my responsibility.” Derek’s eyes never leave Peter as he carefully lays Stiles’ head on the ground and stands.

Scott bristles at the thought of letting Stiles’ attacker be handled by someone else. But the black lines are streaking up Scott’s arms again, the pain fading his eyes back to brown and his fangs back to human, and his rage is pushed aside by concern, albeit momentarily. Liam and Kira are still at the ready, so he focuses his healing energy onto his best friend, who is slowly beginning to stir. But Scott keeps an eye on Derek as he moves towards Peter’s cage, ready to spring into action if necessary. 

“Hello, nephew.” Peter stands upright, his demon form at least a head shorter than Derek. He looks almost childlike in front of the mature werewolf.

“You’re not my uncle. My uncle is dead.” Derek’s voice is flat, void of emotion. His body seems relaxed, but Scott can tell that his muscles are coiled tight like a viper as he slowly steps forward, coming to a stop just outside the dark black circle that encloses Peter’s demon form.

Peter looks around the room in defiance. His eyes taking in the pack, one-by-one in turn.  _ He must realize he is out of options now _ , Scott thinks. Almost imperceptibly, Peter’s body slacks. His shoulders dip, his stomach, though distended, curling slightly inward. His eyes go downcast. It’s so slight, but the effect is incredible. Scott gapes at the transformation. Peter, almost immediately, appears...contrite.

“Derek, please,” Peter moans, his voice laced with pain. “I’m so sorry.”

Derek scoffs. “Sorry? You expect me to feel badly for you? You’re  _ nothing _ to me, Peter. You deserve to  _ die _ .”

Scott expects him to deny it. Expects Peter to beg for his life. It’s what Peter does. He demands second, third, sixtieth chances. He barters for his life with whatever he can find.

So no one is more surprised than Scott when Peter agrees.

“You’re right. I deserve to die.” Peter drops to his knees, his chin hitting his blood-spattered chest. “Just kill me. Get it over with.”

Scott can see Derek hesitate, his head tilting slightly to the side. Scott hears him take a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. As if the sudden change has touched on some kind of deeper level of feeling in Derek, and maybe...he’s changed his mind?  _ No _ , Scott thinks.  _ Don’t fall for it, Derek. He’s playing you _ .

Peter raises his head, and Scott is disgusted to see that his eyes are shiny with tears.  _ There’s no way that anyone is actually buying this _ . Scott glances around the room to see everyone watching the scene with varying levels of confusion.

Scott’s attention is diverted when he feels movement underneath his hands. His gaze flies down to see Stiles’ eyes open. His face is scrunched in pain, but his eyes are wildly moving around. They come to lock on Scott’s eyes.

“Scotty?” Stiles’ voice is barely recognizable through the scratchiness in his tone. “Where’s Lydia?”

“She’s…” Scott trails off as he looks behind him and realizes... _ holy shit _ . She hasn’t emerged from the tub yet. He hears Stiles shifting to look around, and has to act quickly. Stiles will hurt himself if he thinks she’s in trouble. Scott places his hands gently on Stiles’ chest, being careful of the bandages. “She’s coming. It’s okay.” 

He looks back at Kira, asking with his eyes,  _ Am I right? _

Kira looks to the pool and gives him an apologetic shrug. Scott’s eyes widen, looking at the edge of the tub.

_ C’mon, Lydia. _

He looks back at Stiles and gives him an assuring nod. “She’s coming.” He hopes he sounds confident. His heart is pounding again. Stiles seems to relax a bit, though his face is still contorted in pain.

“Mason.”

Scott had momentarily forgotten about Derek and Peter, but at Derek’s voice, Scott looks up to see Derek standing just on the edge of the mountain ash barrier, Peter facing him on the opposite side.

Mason, who until then had been standing to the side, trying to stay out of the way of Melissa and Deaton, suddenly jumps to attention. “What? I mean...yes?”

“Break the barrier.”

“What?”

Derek turns to Mason and speaks in a firm voice. “Break. The. Barrier.”

Mason looks to Scott for direction. Scott looks at Derek. His eyebrow cocks, as if daring Scott to argue. The tension in the room escalates, and Scott feels the others holding their breaths. He feels Liam’s haunches rise, Kira’s grip re-tighten on her katana. Scott is torn between trusting Derek’s resolve and relying on his own instincts that are screaming that he can’t trust Peter.

In the end, it isn’t Scott that makes the decision. It’s Stiles.

“Derek?” Stiles’ scratchy voice is a bit stronger, but still strained with pain. He manages to lift his head off the ground to look directly at Derek’s face. “It’s time to finish it.”

Derek turns back and levels his gaze at Peter. “Mason. Break the barrier.”

Mason looks to Scott again, who nods his assent. The human, heartbeat pounding, walks hesitantly from the door to the barrier, standing next to Derek. Scott stands up and readies himself. He feels Stiles’ hand wrap around Scott’s ankle, and Scott looks down to see Stiles smiling up at him through the pain.

_ You’re the strongest one in the pack _ , Scott thinks, looking at Stiles, before lifting his head back to watch Mason.

Mason raises a foot and slides it across the mountain ash, dragging a line with his toe, and breaking the supernatural cage that held Peter. As soon as the hold is broken, Peter moves with a speed that no one expects. His hands reach out and grab Mason around the upper arms, his talons digging into flesh. Mason cries out in pain, but before Derek can try to grab Peter, Mason is flung heavily into Derek’s chest and they tumble backwards into Liam, who is getting ready to spring. The three of them stumble back into the edge of the tub where Lydia is still submerged.

Scott barely has time to register what has happened when he turns to see Melissa being shoved into Deaton, and they tumble to the floor. Kira moves on Scott’s right, and he turns to her to hold her back, and in that moment, Peter’s talons slice through the wound-free skin on Stiles’ neck. As if in slow-motion, Scott sees the action unfolding, but his own movements are too sluggish with shock to stop it in time. Scott sees Stiles’ eyes widen and his mouth open in a soundless gape, and Scott smells the metallic tang of Stiles’ fresh blood fill the air. The smell drives Scott to action, and as Peter stands, his other arm swooping downward to attack Scott, his own claws thrust upward directly into the soft, distended skin just under the demon’s ribcage. He feels his claws sinking in deep, digging in until he can sense the throbbing of the demon’s heart-center. Peter’s motion freezes with a choked gasp, the deadly move from Scott pausing the dramatic burst in action. 

Scott senses that there’s movement from the others in the room, but the only thing he hears is the gurgling in Peter’s throat, and the roaring in his own ears, the rage overtaking him.

“I’ll come back—” Peter manages, blood pouring from his mouth. “—and finish with the red-headed bitch...in my next life.” A wheeze pours hot breath over Scott’s face, and Scott pushes his claws deeper into the pulsing heart-center, the bursting of vessels around his hands draining the life and energy from the body he is holding up. “Good luck...explaining  _ that _ .”

Peter’s eyes drift downward to where Stiles’ body lay twitching. The roaring in Scott’s head doubles in strength and he realizes that his own menace is joined by a roar from Derek, who has pushed off of Mason and Liam and launched himself across Stiles’ body. His own claws join Scott’s, tearing into the skin on Peter’s back, throwing Peter’s eyes wide in shock for a mere moment before Derek thrusts his own hands upwards, delivering the death blow. Peter’s last breath exits his body, and he slumps down, lifeless. The combined strength of Derek and Scott is the only thing keeping the body aloft.

A gurgling noise draws their attention, and together Derek and Scott throw the lifeless body to the side and drop down next to Stiles. Stiles can only manage a choked gasp as rivers of deep red blood gush from the 4 claw marks that cross his neck and up his jawline. His shaking hands lift, grabbing onto Scott’s forearm desperately. Scott stares down at his best friend—his  _ brother _ —watching helplessly as Derek tries to press against the wound, trying to stem the tide of blood from Stiles’ neck with his bare hands, all the while knowing it’s too late. 

“Stiles, I’m so sorry,” Scott whispers.

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Lyd—”

The sound of Stiles’ voice is cut off by a horrendous gurgling noise, and Stiles’ eyes go lifeless, his hands dropping from Scott’s forearms. Scott looks up and down Stiles’ body, expecting him to continue to confound the odds. To rise up even when everything seems lost. 

But the only thing that happens is that Scott hears a final heartbeat, and the flow of blood from Stiles’ wounds stops. 

Scott knows that the last details of life are quiet. Several moments where those that are living strain their ears to hear the finality of life. The moment following the final breath, when you’re listening for another breath, unsure if it will never come, until you realize that where it  _ should _ have been is now empty of sound. The living scramble in their brain to detail that final breath, imprinting the moment on their memory. And then the heartbreak that follows, knowing that you’ll never hear the sound of breathing from that person again. There’s a quiet that follows death. That’s when the reality of it hits—the emotion that floods into the empty space after a loved one succumbs to death’s final call. 

He had experienced it before with Allison. The quiet, the flood of heartache. And now, he experiences it again, with Stiles. He listens for that next heartbeat, and when it doesn’t come, he knows it’s over.

Scott looks at Derek, on the other side of Stiles’ body, and Scott has to tear his eyes away from the pain that he finds in Derek’s face. Scott helplessly searches the faces of the others in the room, looking for answers, looking for  _ help _ . But all he gets in response are returning looks of shock. Deaton’s brow is furrowed, his arm around Melissa who’s head is buried in his shoulder, silent sobs wracking her body. Liam and Mason have downcast eyes as they lean into each other. Kira steps behind him and places a gentle, squeezing hand on his shoulder. No one can help. There’s nothing to be done. They won the fight. But...they lost the war.

Just a moment ago, the roaring in Scott’s head was like a freight train. Now, the only thing Scott can process is silence.

Stiles is dead.

And the emotion that floods into Scott’s soul is enough to hollow him out.

Silence.

A silence that chokes him, forcing him to push himself back and away from Stiles’ body, sliding along the floor until his back hits a wall. He pushes up to his feet, thinking to run, but then his eyes catch the red on the floor. He focuses on the streaks of deep red that lead from Stiles’ body to where he rests, marks painted onto the floor from his coated knees and hands. Scott can’t tear his eyes away from them, from thinking that it’s Stiles’ life painted there on the floor. Stiles’ heart and soul smeared in streaks across the linoleum.

The silence is suddenly broken by tumbling water and a loud gasp from the tub. Every head in the room turns to the spot where Lydia emerges, gasping for air and standing up and splashing water everywhere. Coughs wrack her small frame, and she doubles over, expelling water from her lungs with every force of air. She’s facing away from Scott, but he sees her stand for a moment, wet hair clinging to her shoulders and her back. It’s quiet for a split second before she takes a full breath and releases a terrifying scream. It’s a scream that forces everyone to cover their ears and duck their heads as all of the glass in the room shatters at once—the window on the door to the room, as well as the glass containers situated atop the countertops.

Scott’s eyes water with the force of it, and he catches Derek out of the corner of his eye, clutching his ears, curling in on himself.

_ Oh god, Lydia. _ Scott yearns to protect her from this. But he can’t. Stiles died with her name on his lips and she didn’t even hear it. He didn’t stop this.

The scream dies out, and Scott turns his head reluctantly to watch her. She stumbles out of the tub, falling to her hands and knees as her head falls forward and she gasps in and out, trying to catch her breath. She slowly lifts her head, and a moan-cry escapes her lips as she sees the scene in front of her, a scene she had witnessed moments ago as a banshee, but now is living it in full, terrifying Technicolor.

She crawls along the ground, the water sloshing and pooling around her as she goes, eventually mixing with the red of Stiles’ blood and creating swirls of color in the transparent liquid.  _ It’s almost beautiful _ , Scott thinks, before the gasping sob that erupts from Lydia’s mouth drags his eyes back up reluctantly. Stiles’ body now has Lydia draped over it, clutching to his torn shirt, patting her fingers over his bandaged chest, fingers slowly discovering and trailing along the newest wounds on his neck that led to his death.

“Oh...my Stiles…” Lydia gasps through her tears, her voice gravelly with emotion and pain from the ice water. “ _ No _ .”

Scott wants to look away, wants to tear his eyes from the scene in front of him—the scene he should have prevented—but he can’t. And his heart twists and gasps with every word that comes out of Lydia’s mouth, each phrase spoken in agony tattooing itself on his heart.

“You’re okay. You’re safe—” she breaks on a sob. “You’re safe now.”

Lydia’s head drops to Stiles’ chest, and her silent cries shudder throughout her whole body. Scott sees her fold down on him, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, making her appear like she is molded to him. Scott hears the sniffs from Kira and Melissa, can smell the sorrow and loss pouring off of the rest of the members of the pack. Scott sees Derek’s hand gently come to rest on Lydia’s back.

Scott looks down at his hands, coated with red. In battles it has always been the blood of his enemies, easily washed away. But now—it’s the blood of his best friend, the last remnants of his life caked and dried in the lines on his weathered palms.

Lydia pushes up from Stiles and whips her head around the room, searching until she turns back and finds Scott. She moves quickly in his direction, and for a moment he thinks she is going to collapse into his arms, but instead she stops short of him and stares into his eyes. Her own are shiny with tears, her cheeks flushed and her hair matted in wet clumps around her face. 

Her breath comes out in a whisper. “What happened, Scott?”

He wants to answer. He wants to give her comfort. He wants to offer her peace. He wants to assure her that he did everything, that somehow this isn’t what it looks like. But how can he say that, when it’s his fault? 

Scott pinches his eyes shut tightly, the tears falling freely. When he doesn’t answer, Lydia begins to accuse him more forcefully.

“You were supposed to be ready. I  _ trusted _ you, Scott.” Her words get louder, and she gets closer to him, raising her hands and pointing a long finger into his chest. “You were supposed to take care of Peter.”

At his name, a flood of anger rolls off of her and crashes into Scott with her fists. She pounds into his chest, “You were supposed to save Stiles!” Her voice breaks and quavers as her fists punctuate her words. “He was supposed to  _ live _ ! I brought him back! I trusted you!”

She pounds on his chest in a flurry of tears and accusing words, and Scott can’t stop her because everything she’s saying is true. He wishes her words could tear into his skin, because it feels like his heart has been torn out already and he’s empty, a gaping wound in his chest that he wants manifested. He wants to feel it. So he closes his eyes and takes her desolation, wishing that her fists could do more damage than a simple thud against his skin. 

“We were supposed to save Stiles! But now he’s…” Her words disappear into his chest and she collapses against him, sagging lower and he finally allows himself to gather her into his arms, dropping his face onto the top of her head and joining her in her sobs. They sag lower to the floor together, their despair mixing together. He hears her weeping into his chest, her own hands clenching together into her chest, like she’s holding herself together.

She whispers against his chest. “I— I can’t  _ feel _ him anymore, Scott. And I’m so... _ empty _ .”

He understands all too well. There is a space in his soul labeled “Allison” that has never been filled, just hardened over time like a handprint in cement. His life has moved on, he’s made new joys and had loves to help ease the pain, but the print will always be there. And for a connection like Stiles and Lydia, a bond forged over years and heartaches and joys, that print space will be even larger. It may never be filled again.

He pulls her tighter into his chest, as if their collective empty spaces can be filled by gathering each other closer. 

“I’m so sorry, Lydia,” he whispers into her hair. “God, I am  _ so _ sorry.”

  
  


********************

  
  


_ He stumbles to the ground, hitting the spotless floor with enough force to create noise, but it is eerily silent, the sound he should have made vacuuming into nothing. His vision squints shut, slow to adjust to the brightness that blinds him. _

_ It’s a strange sensation. He feels like he’s on solid ground, but he can’t determine where the ground actually begins, because everything around him is white. He feels weightless, yet he meets with a surface with some weight, so gravity must exist in some form. He can’t determine a source of the blinding light—it seems to exist everywhere, from all sides and angles, so blindingly bright that it’s immediately terrifying. This type of brightness is unworldly. Where is he? _

_ His eyes are slow to adjust, the whiteness causing him to hold up flimsy, vaporous hands to attempt to shield his vision. _

_ He’s no longer in the clinic. The opaque whiteness that filled that space is a ruddy gray in comparison to the space in which he now finds himself. _

_ “Hello?” He expects an echo, his voice to fill the void that surrounds him, but his voice barely registers, the tremendous vacuum taking the sound and disintegrating it until it no longer exists. Until he wonders whether he had made any sound at all. _

_ He is instantly afraid. He has no memory of getting to this place. He has no concept of how long he has been here. He looks down at his body and his eyes widen at what he sees. He is a figure of mist and unformed shape, and though he cannot identify his features, he still feels like a being. A being that is simultaneously weightless and leaden at the same time. _

_ “You are dead. Your body is torn apart and bleeding on the ground. What remains now is what you are. A vapor; a mist.” _

_ He searches in vain for the origin of the voice. It fills his space from the inside—he wonders if it doesn’t come from inside himself entirely. _

_ Confusion fills him as he contemplates the words spoken. Suddenly, within his mind, a memory emerges: his best friend, standing for battle, bright blue eyes that fill him with fear, the swipe of claws, the smell of blood. A growing darkness in his vision. His two friends, and then blackness. He had fought. He had lost. _

_ He feels like he should be afraid. Most, when confronted with their death, would be. But all he can feel is sorrow. Sorrow at not getting to say goodbye. Sorrow at not seeing her face one last time. _

_ The silence is broken by the sound of a loud grunt to his right. He looks over, surprised to find another body suddenly appearing in the space, crumpled and curled several feet from him. He sees the body unfurl, barely registering against the white, the barest of outlines appearing in his vision. _

_ Who is that? It isn’t human. As it stands and looks around, fumbling blindly—as he had—against the whiteness, he realizes: this is the creature that caused his death. _

_ It is Peter. _

_ He is Stiles. _

_ And they are dead. _

_ “Your thirst for chaos has brought you here.” _

_ Stiles sees Peter’s body move upright, defiance resonating in his appearance, even with his vision obscured. _

_ The voice echoes throughout the space again. “Your endless quest for power. Your appetite for destruction. These are the things that have condemned you.” _

_ Stiles is surprised when Peter speaks, his voice an odd mixture of annoyance with a tremulous undercurrent of fear. Like he wants to be brave, but his spirit can’t contain the natural response to the environment. _

_ “Yeah, yeah. We’ve been through this before. Can we get on with it?” _

_ Stiles is taken aback. Peter has been here before? _

_ “Your evil deeds condemn you. You have killed.” _

_ Stiles hears Peter’s rebuttal from under his breath.. “Not enough.” _

_ “You have forsaken the spirit of your ancestors. You have stolen. You have abused. You will not pass on.”  _

_ Peter’s hands swipe through the air, as if to dismiss everything. “Yeah, I’ve heard all this before. I’m not going to pass on to the next life, yadda yadda. Can we just get back to the part where you curse me to a hideous body on earth so that I can finish what I started?” _

_ At this, Stiles can’t stay a quiet observer any longer. “You mean killing my wife and my friends.” _

_ Peter whips his body around to the direction of Stiles’ voice. _

_ “You!” _

_ Peter launches himself at Stiles, poised to attack, but his body freezes in the moment. _

_ The bodiless voice fills the space again. “No, Peter. You will not pass on. Your return to earth was a chance for you to redeem your soul. But you have squandered your second chance the way you squandered the life you lived on earth." _

_ Stiles sees Peter’s eyes widen in fear. It’s obvious he did not expect this.  _

_ “Please,” Stiles hears him beg. “Please give me another chance. I will do better, I swear! I’ll be different!” _

_ His plea sounds impassioned, and if Stiles didn’t know Peter, he would say the sentiment was genuine. But Stiles  _ knows _. Peter will say anything to get what he wants, because at the core of his soul, Peter is a selfish creature, unable to have empathy or sympathy for anything but his own desires. _

_ Peter turns away from Stiles, searching the chasmal space with his eyes. “Please. Give me another chance.” _

_ Stiles holds his breath, hoping that the disembodied voice is as aware of Peter’s tendencies as he is. _

_ After a moment, the voice declares. “No.” _

_ There is immediately a break in the whiteness, a black spot in the distance that begins to grow and spread. Stiles sees it and is filled with a sudden dread and fear. He doesn’t know what is happening, but the terror that fills him upon the sight of the intense blackness indicates his soul’s response to this new place. _

_ Peter’s eyes shift dramatically as he feels it, too. _

_ The bloodcurdling scream that rips from Peter cuts into Stiles’ soul. It’s the sound of desperation. It fills the void and echoes in the chambers of the unknown. When it ends, Stiles watches with incredulous eyes as Peter once again addresses him, pleading in earnest now.  _

_ “Please, Stiles. Tell them I can be a good person. Tell them I can be better.” _

_ A small modicum of pity flits through Stiles’ heart. “I’m sorry, Peter.” _

_ Peter’s eyebrows raise slightly in hope. _

_ Stiles continues. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” _

_ Long tendrils of blackness from the space behind Peter begin wrapping themselves around his limbs, his stomach, his neck, winding tighter and tighter. His body crumples in on itself, pain flooding his features as the blackness latches onto his faded body.  _

_ The voice echoes to Peter one last time. “You are condemned to the painful beyond. You will never return. You will be erased from this life, and spend eternity in nothingness and pain, alone as the decisions of your life have dictated.” _

_ Screams erupt from Peter. Intense, howling screams of pain, and Stiles screws his eyes tight against it. He doesn’t want to see what happens—the sound of the soul’s elimination is terrifying enough. _

_ Stiles hears Peter’s final defiant shout. “You can’t do this to me!” _

_ As the screams slowly fade, Stiles hears the voice respond from a distance, void of emotion.  _

_ “You did this to yourself.” _

_ A whooshing and suctioning noise accompany the distancing screams until at last, there is a silence that fills the space again. _

_ Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths before he dares to open his eyes.  _

_ There is nothing. Just endless whiteness once again.  _

_ Peter is gone. _

_ Terror fills Stiles. What will his fate be? Will he join Peter in that eternal darkness? _

_ The voice directs itself at Stiles once again, and he cowers in humility under its power. “A thirst for power has brought you here.  _ His _ thirst for power.” _

_ “Your life has been marked by pain, Stiles Stilinski. Pain and heartache and loss. Your mother. Your friends. Your father. Your children.” _

_ Stiles’ eyes prick with tears as images flash across his brain, flying faster and faster. His mother in the hospital, his father’s casket, Scott standing by Allison’s grave, Lydia lying motionless in Eichen. Donovan’s lifeless body at his own hands. Derek’s shaking hands over Boyd’s body. The bloody floor of their bathroom, a baseball bat with too many strings. The images continue to cycle in flashes, faster and faster until they are choked off with his sobs.  _

_ “You carry pain so deep that it etches canyons of grief into your heart.” _

_ Stiles nods, unable to speak with the tightness in his chest and the sobs he can barely contain. _

_ “But,” the voice continues. “Your life has been marked in equal measure with joy. Your brother. Your pack. Your wife. Your friends.” _

_ The sorrowful images are slowly replaced with flashes of the pack, of Scott, of family. Of Lydia. Over and over, pictures of Lydia. Smiling, smirking, self-satisfied, gazes of love and adoration. Hair fanned out on a pillow or piled atop her head. Leaning in to press her forehead against his, sighing her breath across his cheek. The memories of her fill his chest and push out the fear and the doubt. Her presence in his soul fills him with warmth and confidence and strength. _

_ He brings himself to speak, emotion lacing his words. “There are a few things in this life that I think I got right.” _

_ For the entirety of his time in this space, the voice has been cold and detached. But now, it speaks with a warmth.  _

_ “Your joy fills the canyons of your heart with life-giving water. I believe you have more to give, Stiles Stilinski. In this life, and in the life to come.” _

_ Stiles is confused. This statement, so warm, is so different from the previous words that it sets him on edge. _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ The white space fades, and Stiles yells it again but his voice goes nowhere. It is swallowed by blankness. As he disappears, the voice responds from a distance: still warm, but with a hint of warning.  _

_ “Don’t waste this.” _

  
  
  


*******************

  
  


It doesn’t make sense.

He can’t describe it.

All he knows is that one minute, he’s dead. And the next, he...isn’t.

Well, he doesn’t  _ think _ he’s dead. He can’t move. Or see. Or... _ nope _ . He can’t hear anything, either. But he feels his heart beating. And there’s long, slow, deep breathing going on. He feels it going in and out of his lungs, each breath he takes in getting fuller, stronger.

_ So...not dead. _

The blinding whiteness from before had disappeared almost instantly into blackness. Stiles’ body, which was a faded form in the white space, was now weighted and firm. He felt completely different now. He wasn’t a vaporous form anymore. He was solid, weighty. He could feel the flat, hard surface along his back, his shoulder blades pressing into what he could only assume is the ground. 

_ Why am I on the ground?  _

_ Oh, right. ‘Cause I was dead.  _

_ Stupid, Fucking Peter. _

_ … _

_ Oh, but he’s definitely dead. _

_ Eh. That fucker deserved it. Rot in Hell, Peter. _

_ … _

_ Sorry, Peter. _

_... _

His eyelids are still unmoving, so he takes a few moments to take in the life that is flowing once again through his body. He takes mental stock of his injuries, only to realize: he can’t feel any of them. The holes in his chest, the slices in his arms and face, the pain that had lanced through every muscle in his body not long ago seem to have just...disappeared. As he takes a slow, deep breath, he can feel the places where the demon dug into his chest, but they feel different—tighter, somehow—almost like they are scarred over already.

Which is, of course, impossible. Scarring can only happen when your body is alive and capable of healing itself. And not two minutes ago, his body  _ wasn’t _ alive. His rational mind knows that. But then again,  _ nothing _ that has happened over the last few weeks has been even in the same category as rational. Or logical. Or... _ believable _ . 

He wants to lift his arms to feel the state of his body, but they are like thousand-pound weights.  _ Man, it’s hard work coming back from the dead. This is way worse than kanima venom. At least then I could see. And talk. _ So, he lies in wait. Feels the sound of his heartbeat getting stronger, getting louder, pumping life-giving blood through his veins—

“Hey, guys.”

The sound is muffled, like it’s coming from the other side of a door. His hearing must be slow to recover—but it  _ is _ recovering, thank god. He strains his ears to focus on the voice, willing them to clear.

“Do you hear that?”

_ Wait, that’s Derek’s voice. He’s here? _

“Hear what?”

_ There’s Scott. Scotty, my man. I’m so glad to hear your voice.  _ There’s a million questions he wants answered, but when he tries to call out, he finds that his voice is on the same, slow path to recovery as his eyes and ears. He concentrates his thoughts. 

_ Scott! Is Lydia okay? _

...

_ You idiot. He’s not telepathic. _

“I can hear a heartbeat. Someone’s here.”

Stiles can tell that Derek’s voice is concerned, even through the haze. It’s hard to tell if he’s in the same room as Scott—it’s like his ears are full of cotton.

_ I really could use the werewolf healing thing right about now. _

“Is it Peter? Is he back? Can you smell him?”

_ Oh, there’s Mason. _

“It’s hard to smell anything over…” There’s an awkward silence.

_ Over what?  _

_...Derek?  _

_...Over what? _

“It’s okay, Derek. ‘Over the smell of Stiles’ blood.’ You can say it.”

Stiles feels his heartbeat ramp up, beating hard and fast so suddenly it’s almost painful.  _ Lydia. Oh my god, Lydia. You made it. _

Joy like he has never known floods through his body. He wants to smile—scream—jump up and down—wrap her up in his arms and never let go.  _ Not even to go to the bathroom. It’ll be awkward as shit, but I don’t care. I’m never letting her go ever again. _ She’s alive. She made it. He...well, he didn’t make it. But then he did!  _ That’s not important right now. _

“Whoa. I hear it, too.”

_It’s me, Scott! I’m…_ _Fuck, where_ am _I?_

Blood is flowing even faster through his body, and his arms and legs start to tingle. It’s like his whole body was asleep and now the prickles in his limbs and fingers and toes are indicating that they’re all waking up at once. It’s a manageable prickling at first, but then it starts getting more painful.  _ And my butt. How long have I been laying on this floor, guys? My ass is numb. _

“Deaton, go and check the door and make sure the wards are still in place. Liam, go with him.” Footsteps fall quickly and a door opens and shuts.

_ Scott, it’s okay! It’s just me. _ His breathing is getting fuller. Slowly but surely.

“Kira, stay with Lydia. Mom, you and Mason go back into my office.”

_ Hi Mom! I’m okay! _

“Can you hear that?” Derek asks.

There’s a pause before Scott answers, “Yeah. Breathing.”

Derek answers, “It’s close.” There’s a sound of claws popping and fangs extending—a sound so familiar that Stiles doesn’t even need to see it to know it’s happening.

_ Guys! It’s me! _

He hears the growls, and they are the catalyst for clearing the last of the cotton out of Stiles’ ears.  _ Of course. Perfect timing. Can’t even plug my ears now. _

Stiles’ fingers jerk as the roars erupt. 

_ Yes! Progress! Come on, fingers, move! _

Now that he can hear fully, he can tell they’re all in the same room.  _ Are we still in the room where we fought Peter? _

“Stop!” Lydia shrieks. “Stop!”

The sound cuts off immediately.

“What is it?” Scott asks. 

_ She’s standing right next to you, Scott. You’re probably hurting her ears. Can you and Derek cut it out with the roaring? It’s a small space! _

“He moved.”

“ _ Who _ moved?” Derek asks.

Lydia’s voice is whispered. “Stiles.”

There’s a disbelieving exhale from Scott. “What?”

Stiles hears Lydia move, a brush of wind flowing over his body as she kneels hurriedly next to him. He feels her knees press against his hip, he senses her leaning over him, picking up his hand between her own. 

_ Oh. Her skin is so soft and warm. _

“Lydia…” Stiles hears Melissa’s soft voice. He knows that voice. It’s the one they use on panicking patients and trapped criminals holding guns. It’s the ‘take it easy’ voice.

_ She’s not crazy, Mom. I’m alive. _

“Mom, look at his neck,” Scott says incredulously.

There’s silence that follows, and Stiles doesn’t have to have his eyes open to feel everyone looking at him. So he concentrates on squeezing Lydia’s hand, on breathing as deeply as possible.

He hears Lydia’s audible gasp, followed by several others, he can’t tell which.

Suddenly, Lydia’s hands are on either side of his face cupping his cheeks, running her thumbs over them. He feels her breath washing over his face as she leans over him.

“Stiles? Can you hear me?”

_ Yes! I can hear you! _

“Oh my God! He’s breathing. He’s alive!”

“He’s alive?” Kira’s voice echoes hers. “ _ How _ ?”

Stiles hears the room erupt with sound. He can’t keep track of it all. He wants to know what is happening, but more importantly, he wants to see Lydia. His hand had fallen into her lap when she moved to touch his face, and he concentrates again on moving his fingers, overjoyed when they move again.

_ Mmmmm...Lydia’s legs. My favorite. _

“Mmmm…”

An excited shriek erupts from Lydia again, “He’s talking! Stiles! Come on, sweetie. Talk to me.  _ Look _ at me. Open your eyes, Stiles.”

_ I’m trying, believe me. _

The tingling in his limbs is like a stabbing pain now, the feeling rushing back into his body. His feet start to twitch, and he feels the left one run into something.

“Whoa! He just kicked me!” Scott exclaims joyfully.

A door opens and Stiles can hear footsteps as someone enters the room. “What’s happening?” Liam asks.

“Stiles is alive!” Kira exclaims, excitedly.

“What?” Deaton asks. Stiles hears him moving quickly, going to kneel near his head somewhere. 

“How in the hell is this happening?” Derek asks, from somewhere near Stiles’ right side, next to Lydia.

_ I want to tell you all so badly, but I’m kind of paralyzed at the moment _ .

Stiles feels Deaton’s hands trace the claw marks on his neck, drawing patterns on his chest. The entire time, Lydia’s hands never leave his face, tracing his lips, his jawbone, his hairline, sliding her fingertips into the gray at his temples.

“His wounds are all healed.” Deaton states with astonishment.

“Wha—? How is that even possible?” Scott asks, astoundedly. “Mom?”

“He was dead, Scott. I assure you, I have no idea.”

“Let’s hope that Stiles can tell us himself,” Deaton answers.

_ Of course I’ll tell you. You guys won’t be able to get me to shut up, once this paralyzed thing wears off. _

“Mmmnhh,” he manages. 

“That’s right, Stiles. Keep talking. Come on. Open your eyes, please.” He wants to look at Lydia so badly, he can nearly taste it. 

He senses her leaning down, tendrils of her hair brushing the side of his face and the tip of his nose.  _ Aah! It itches! _ He wants to lift his hand to move her hair away, but only for a split-second before she is pressing her lips to his, and  _ oh _ he doesn’t care about tendrils of hair even remotely anymore because Lydia is kissing him. It’s gentle and sweet and salty—her tears allowing their lips to glide together so smoothly. 

_ Lydia, I’m so sorry you had to cry for me. _

Her lips had always been gorgeous—full and beautiful—he had wasted many hours of class time and days at his job thinking of them. But now, after being dead, and literally thinking he would never see or touch or taste them ever again, they jolt his body back to life. He feels a sharp snap deep within his chest—the tether between them thrumming to life once again, tightening its hold between the two of them. It had been stretched and twisted and had even disappeared from their senses, but here it is again, winding around their souls like it was never gone.

She breathes into his lips and his eyes finally— _ finally _ —snap open. Everything in the room dims in comparison to the face of his wife hovering above him. Her eyes are closed, tears glistening at the corners of them, and his breath slowly exhales across her face, blowing the tendrils off of his nose.

She opens her eyes, and her breath catches as she sees him looking at her. Her face reflects a million emotions at once, and he watches them all flit across her eyes, one after another. Shock, confusion, amazement, relief, joy. He registers each of them, and he’s sure that his face reflects the same back to her.

They breathe together, her hands cradling his face as their eyes search each other’s.

There’s a million things that should be said. The room is quiet; he has everyone’s attention. He could be funny. He could be poignant. He could explain.

But all he wants is Lydia’s eyes on his, her hands caressing his face, looking at him as if he is everything. And— _ yes, finally! _ —his hand lifts, shaking, sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her to him once again.

Where their lips meet, a warmth spreads like a slow-building flame. It awakens the rest of his body, piece-by-piece, lighting it up from within and burning off the fingers of death that were slow to release their hold.

When they part, Lydia gazes into his eyes yet again, as if she can’t believe he’s here. The feeling’s mutual—he can’t believe he’s here, either.

“Hi.”

His voice is scratchy from non-use; it’s barely a whisper. But the room is so quiet that she doesn’t miss it. She huffs out a short, breathy laugh through her nose, shaking her head slightly at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The tears that had been sitting at the corners of her eyes slide down, and his thumbs catch them, rubbing the wetness into the dimples that have appeared on her cheeks.

“Welcome back.”

There’s movement throughout the room—anyone who wasn’t close before now comes to kneel on the floor. Lydia helps Stiles to sit up, his muscles stiff and sore, but all of his wounds healed over. The scars will remain, but scars from this life usually do. 

Melissa and Deaton, Liam and Kira join Scott, Derek, and Lydia on the floor, and there’s a moment where they all place a hand on him somewhere, as if to prove to themselves that he’s real. That he’s alive. Stiles meets each of their gazes in turn, looking around the room at his family. His pack.

Deaton, who supports and finds answers and never tires of a job that takes more than it gives. Melissa, who loves him as much as his own mom, and has suffered more than any woman should have to—but still manages to fight and encourage. Mason, who loves and laughs and thinks and solves. Liam, who fights and stays loyal and defends the pack with his life. 

Kira— _ oh my god, Kira! _ Stiles’ eyes go wide, and there’s a huff of laughter and Kira smiles and waves at him with a little flutter from her fingers.

Stiles’ eyes move to Derek, whose life has been almost nothing but loss and pain—even in this moment—but still holds on to hope and builds a pack whose purpose is to leave the world different—better—than they found it. Derek is looking at him with joy, but Stiles also sees the pain that runs as a constant undercurrent to who Derek is. A pain that will only increase with the loss of his uncle, who—even being a complete and total fuckwad—was also family. And pack. 

Stiles looks at him apologetically, mouthing a silent, “I’m sorry.” Derek nods, a silent  _ It’s okay _ offered back as he squeezes Stiles’ ankle.

Stiles looks to his left, to his best friend. Scott McCall, who built sandcastles with him in Kindergarten and ran lacrosse drills with him in high school, and straightened Stiles’ bow tie for him on his wedding day, and now sits next to him on the day he came back to life. His hands are covered in blood and his eyes are wet with tears, but he holds them together the way he has always held everyone together.

Stiles reaches out his hand and Scott grabs it firmly. There’s so much to say. Too much. They just squeeze each other’s hands and communicate without words, the way they have done since they were kids.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Scott whispers, his voice hitching with emotion at the end.

Stiles looks back at Lydia, pure adoration in her eyes. She’s holding his hand on her face, her other hand rubbing up and down his arm.

_ Seriously, never letting her go again _ .

Stiles lifts his eyes upward. He doesn’t know if the white place Peter met his end was Heaven, or a place with another name. He doesn’t know if it’s above them, or below them, or what. But he knows that whoever—or whatever—it was that made the decision to return Stiles to this life—he knows that they are watching.

The bodiless voice echoes in his ears once again as he gazes upwards. 

_ “I believe you have more to give, Stiles Stilinski.” _

Stiles feels the presence of his pack around him, the warmth of his wife pressed against him and his best friend’s hand holding his own, the hands of those he loves holding him close, and his eyes prick with tears. He closes his eyes, his face upward, and whispers.

“Thank you.”

His eyes open slowly, and he looks down at the pack, a grin breaking out over his face. He pulls his hands free from where they’ve been holding onto Scott and Lydia, and he clasps them together. 

Everyone looks at him expectantly as he clears his throat. “Everyone? I have an announcement: Curly fries. I need curly fries like, yesterday.”

Everyone laughs, the atmosphere in the room lightening completely. Lydia and Scott help him to his feet, and even as he is struggling to stand, Stiles continues. “And pizza! I need pizza like I need the air to breathe. Liam, go get some.”

Liam huffs, his arms flailing. “Me? Why me?”

“Because I  _ died _ , and I need sustenance to bring my ailing body back to life. See how I am struggling to stand? I need  _ energy _ , man! Plus, you’re the beta. Now, go!”

Liam looks to Scott for support, but Scott just shrugs. “You heard the man. Curly fries. And pizza.”

Liam’s hands drop in frustration. “Aw, dude! You  _ always _ take his side!”

Scott’s eyes turn back to Stiles, the knowing smile highlighting the smile lines next to his eyes. “He’s my brother.”

“Yeah, I am!” Stiles exclaims. Liam huffs in frustration, and turns on his heel to leave. Stiles calls after him. “And they’d better be hot, or we’ll drop you in that hole again!”

They hear Liam yell from down the hall, “That was  _ one time! _ ”

The group snickers, and Mason gets up to follow him. “He’s gonna need help.” Mason gets to the door and turns around, pointing at Stiles. “Glad you’re back, man.”

Stiles smiles back at him as he leaves the room. Then he turns back to everyone and claps his hands together once again. This time, they all groan. Melissa and Deaton turn to leave, going upstairs to clean up. 

“Hey now!  _ I died _ . Give me a little respect!” 

“How long are you going to milk this?” Derek asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I expect to get  _ full  _ mileage out of this one. It’s not every day that you die and come back to life, right?”

“I did,” Derek says pointedly.

“So did I,” Scott adds.

_ Oh, right _ , Stiles remembers.  _ I forgot about that. _

“Well, then…” Stiles searches for a moment. “...it’s your own fault for not taking full advantage of the ‘I Died Card’ and all its benefits.”

Derek and Scott both roll their eyes.

“Hey! We should form a club!” The possibilities begin to flood through Stiles, of badges and hats and bumper stickers with “I died and came back to life...What have you done today?” emblazoned on them, but his thoughts are interrupted with a hand on his face. He jolts himself out of his thoughts to see that he and Lydia are the only ones left in the room. Kira, Scott, and Derek must have left while his mind was on— _ ooh! Maybe a banner! _

He turns to see Lydia looking at him with his favorite look, the one that seems especially reserved just for him, the one that’s a balance between annoyance, consternation, and love.

He melts into that look, alight with the knowledge that he can get her all mixed up with emotion like this, the same way that she does for him.  _ God, he loves her. _ He silently thanks the...whomever is up there for sending him back to her again.

“You are—”

“—Handsome? Incredible? The love of your life?” Stiles finishes for her as he pulls her into his chest. She looks up at him.

“—such a dork.” She smirks, and he feigns shock before shrugging.

“Eh, yeah. Can’t argue with that.”

Lydia smiles a soft smile at him, almost sad. She tucks her head into his chest and holds him close, breathing him in, her face pressed against his bare chest. “I lost you. You were lifeless in my arms. I...I was so scared.”

His heart breaks a little at how small she sounds. Lydia is never small. She’s bold and brave and beautiful, but never small. He lifts his hands to cup her cheeks. He marvels at the feel of her soft skin under his hands. “But you didn’t lose me. You  _ saved _ me, Lydia. You figured it out.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Lydia admits.

“You broke through time and space to find me.  _ Again _ .” 

Lydia huffs out a small laugh. “Can you please stop getting lost?”

He leans down to her, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. Her hands trace up his chest, feeling the scars that are peppered across his skin.

She pulls away from the kiss, leaving him fishing for more. He sees her staring at his chest in wonder. “How did you survive this?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Stiles admits.  “I watched Peter get taken by… Well, I don’t know what took him, but it was terrifying.”  He sees her question before she can ask it. “Don’t worry, he won’t be coming back. Ever.”

Lydia exhales gratefully.

Stiles holds her close, his voice turning thoughtful as he remembers the white space and the bodiless voice. 

“There was this...voice. It said, ‘ I believe you have more to give, In this life, and in the life to come.’ and then it sent me back.”

Lydia looks up at him. “What does that mean?”

“I...I don’t know,” he admits. “I think maybe it means that I’m not done here. My life here, with you, with the rest of the pack—with our family—isn’t done.”

Lydia shakes her head, her voice sad. “Stiles. Your surgery, my cells—we won’t have—”

“—Shhh.” Stiles presses a kiss onto her forehead. “I know. But I just...after all of this, I just feel like... _there’s_ _something_ _else_. Something ahead of us. It’s why I was sent back. It has to be.”

They stand holding each other for long moments, each lost in their own thoughts. He has no idea what is going to happen. But he feels it, deep inside him. There  _ has _ to be a reason he was brought back. He’s not supernatural. He doesn’t have werewolf powers, he didn’t evolve. He’s just a human. A human with a pack as solid as family and a love strong enough to break through dimensional barriers.

There’s a reason for him to be here.

He knows it.

“Hey you two!” Scott’s voice interrupts, ringing out from a room above them. “If you don’t get up here quick, there won’t be any pizza left for you!”

Stiles yells out, “If you eat all my pizza, I am kicking you out of the ‘I Died Club’, Scott McCall!”

“Then hurry your ass up already!” Derek yells.

“Give me a break, will ya?  _ I died today! _ ” 

“Get over it already!”

Lydia hands Stiles a shirt, and after he puts it on, she takes one of his arms and pulls it over her shoulder, supporting his weight. She smiles up at him as he leans down to kiss her temple. “You’d think they’d be down here, giving me a hand.”

“We don’t need them. We have each other.” Lydia’s eyes sparkle with happiness, and Stiles’ breath catches as he drinks her in.

“Yes.” He smiles down at her. “Yes we do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my goodness. I can't believe this part of the story is over!!
> 
> There is one small chapter left, an epilogue that takes place a couple of years in the future. I hope to have it done in a week or two. It's half done already, just need to finish it up.
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who has stuck with me. I truly truly truly appreciate you!


	11. A Spirit At Peace

 

****************  
  


“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”   
\- Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

 

***************

**_THREE YEARS LATER_ **

 

He’s in the midst of a really beautiful dream. He’s not sure exactly what it’s about, but it definitely includes some kind of meadow? A meadow and he’s warm from the sun and his face is cushioned by the soft grass. It sounds kinda girly, but it’s really peaceful, alright? And someone is poking him in the shoulder and saying his name and he just wants them to go away.

“Stiles?”

_ “Mmmmmmph _ . _ ” _

He tries to shift his brain back to the meadow, but it’s gone from his dream now, and he’s a little annoyed. He doesn’t have an easy time falling asleep, and he doesn’t usually have pleasant dreams, so when he actually gets both things in one night? He gets frustrated when it’s interrupted, even when that interruption comes in the form of his smoking hot wife. He’s about to give the annoying pokey-finger wife of his a piece of his mind when he hears the quiet words in his ear.

“Stiles. It’s time.”

Those three words are like a shot of adrenaline right into his heart. He pushes himself upright in bed immediately, eyes still half-closed as he quickly rubs the sleep out of them and then turns to face her.

“It’s time? Are you sure?”

She smiles exasperatedly. “Yes, Stiles. I’m sure.”

_ It’s time _ . 

He jumps out of bed, nearly tripping over the sheets that are wound around his waist. He stumbles to the dresser, where an outfit has been carefully laid out on top of it. He grabs the pants there and shoves his legs into his them, and she giggles at him as he hops on one foot in his haste. Once his legs are covered, he grabs the t-shirt and starts pulling it on. His chest pulls and stretches a bit—after all this time, his puckered skin from the talons is still a reminder of the trauma he endured.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” he asks, his head hidden, half-stuffed inside a tshirt.

“I’m all ready to go. Showered and everything.”

His voice is muffled. “You showered already?” His head pops out of the shirt, and he takes in her calm, dressed appearance. Well, she’s trying to look calm. He can see her breathing a bit heavier, her eyes showing a nervousness that isn’t usually present in her morning routine.

“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” he asks gently.

She shakes her head at him. “You needed your sleep. This is going to be a long day.” 

As he pulls on his flannel overshirt, he tumbles around the room, grabbing last-minute items that didn’t yet make it into the bags that he’s had packed for weeks. She insisted that they didn’t need to be ready to go three full weeks ahead of time, but he had insisted that you can never be  _ too _ prepared for these things, as babies don’t really bide by normal time tables, and the “What To Expect” book said to have a bag packed two weeks ahead of time, so there they were. Nevermind that they’d kept having to pull things out of it, because like it or not, you  _ do _ need to use your toothbrush every day, so having it packed is simply an inconvenience.

She hadn’t blamed him for it, though. She knew he was as nervous about this whole thing as she was.

As he gathers the last of the things and shoves them into their bags, he sees her stand and grab his pillow from the bed, holding it close to her chest. “I’m taking this with me.” He hears the defiance in her tone.

“ _ My _ pillow? My ‘ _ that’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen’ _ pillow, huh?” She gives him a look that dares him to say anything else. He grins in response. “If you take that, how am  _ I _ supposed to sleep?”

She shrugs. “Neither one of us is going to be sleeping much for the foreseeable future anyway.”

“Point made. Ready to go?”

He sees her take a deep breath and nod. 

“Lemme take these things to the car and then I’ll come back up here to help you, okay?”

She rolls his eyes at him. “I’m  _ fine _ , Stiles.”

He huffs. “Just...let me help, okay? 2 minutes.”

He hefts the bags with him, nearly braining himself on the doorway as he goes out.  _ Take it easy, Stiles. Don’t kill yourself before you even get into the car. _

He gets to the garage and throws the bags in the back, then opens the passenger door to have it ready. His eyes move quickly to the back seat where a car seat is waiting for its new tenant. He smiles a little as he remembers the fight he and Lydia had about whether or not it was installed correctly.

He takes the stairs back up two at a time, and Lydia is still sitting on their bed with his pillow hugged tightly to her chest. He drinks in the sight of her small frame, practically smelling the nervousness and anticipation that’s rolling off of her. 

“Ready to do this?” he asks her gently. 

She looks at him for a moment, and his heart lurches at the apprehension he sees in her features. “What if I’m bad at this?” she asks softly.

“Hey.” He strides over to her, crouching in front of her next to their bed and taking her hands in his own. “You’ve never been bad at anything in your entire life. You’re going to be great at this.” She looks at him with an eyebrow raised, like she doesn’t believe him at all.  “And it’s not like you’re doing it alone. It’s you and me. The two of us can’t possibly fuck this up that badly if we work together, right?”

There’s a small smile on her face. “We always figure it out.” 

“Damn right we do. Come on.” He stands, pulling her up gently. “Let’s do this.” He guides her gently down the hallway and out to the car, placing a gentle kiss on her hand as he helps her in.

“Breathe, Lydia. It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.” 

As he shuts the door, his heart starts beating frantically. He finds himself repeating those same words to himself as he walks around the car to get in.  _ It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. _

He tries to calm his nerves as they drive. It was easy to have a semblance of calm this morning when Lydia was clutching his pillow. He finds it completely natural to remain calm while she’s feeling nervous—like the universe won’t let them both freak out at once, for balance’s sake. But now that they’re on their way to the hospital, that the depth of what is about to happen is looming larger and larger on the horizon, he can’t seem to contain his natural tendencies for anxiety any longer. His fingers are drumming a steady beat on the wheel, and his teeth are worrying into his bottom lip. 

“Should I be driving?”

Stiles is shaken out of his thoughts by her words. “What?”

Her words are slow and emphatic. “Should.  _ I _ . Be driving?”

He huffs at her. “You’re in no condition to be driving. Your nerves are shot right now, and you have to be ready for this.”

She gapes at him. “ _ My _ nerves are shot? You just honked and revved the engine at an old lady crossing the street.”

“She was going  _ so slow _ , Lydia!” He gestures wildly in front of him. “Doesn’t she know we are having a baby right now?”

“Look, If you run over an old lady in a crosswalk and get arrested, I’m not sure you have any pull with the local sheriff’s department anymore. I won’t let you leave me a single mother.”

“Eh. Parrish will let it slide.”

Lydia counters. “I’ll tell him not to. You’re being ridiculous. Slow down. We’ve got some time.”

“But ‘What to Expect’ said that labors can go really fast! I don’t want this baby to come while we’re in the car!”

Lydia turned to him and put her hand on his leg, steadying its bounce under her fingertips. “Stiles. This baby is  _ not _ going to come while we are in the car. And your driving like a maniac is only going to get us killed. Take a few deep breaths, and get us to the hospital safely, okay? Breathe with me.”

She starts taking deep breaths in and out, and he matches them, finding them actually really calming, though he won’t be telling her that. His heart slows down a bit, and his hands stop shaking. The light turns red, and he gently presses down on the gas and they roll forward at a much better pace. Lydia sighs.

“Thank you.”

The rest of the relatively short drive to the hospital is uneventful, other than the shared breathing that they do together, Lydia still clutching to Stiles’ pillow to her chest.

“Do you want me to drop you off?” 

“No,” Lydia answers. “We can walk in together. It’s okay.”

When they get in to the hospital, they take the elevator up to the maternity ward, their hands clasped tightly together. When they arrive, Lydia gives him a quick peck on the cheek before a nurse whisks her away, and Stiles goes to sit in the waiting room. Well, there are chairs, but he doesn’t actually sit. If anyone thinks he will actually sit while waiting here, they have another thing coming. He starts wearing a path in the carpet, back and forth, back and forth. Blessedly, no one else seems to be having a baby at this time, so the waiting room is empty. 

Stiles feels like there’s energy jumping around through his veins. He wouldn’t be surprised if you could actually see it, skipping around on the surface of his skin. It’s a weird combination of excitement, nervousness, and pure terror. It’s sending his anxiety through the roof, but he swore to Lydia that he would be fine; that he wouldn’t have an anxiety attack in the hospital, even though being in this place again feels like the perfect excuse to actually have one. 

_ The last time we were here...No. Stop it. Don’t go there, Stilinski. This is supposed to be happy. Think happy thoughts. _ He shakes his head at his own self-talk. He can be such an idiot. Why does Lydia love him again? She must be as big of an idiot as he is.

After a few more moments of wild self-doubt and anxiety, Stiles senses a figure in the room with him.  When he lifts his head, he sees Scott, and exhales loudly in relief. “Oh, thank God.” Scott’s eyes light up, and he strides over immediately, the two friends wrapping around each other in a huge hug.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Stiles says with relief over Scott’s shoulder. “I’m going batshit crazy out here.”

Scott’s hands pat Stiles’ shoulders, and he chuckles. “Where else would I be right now, dude?”

Stiles chuckles in return and pulls back. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Stiles looks around the room briefly. “Where’s Keiho?”

“My mom’s watching him. He was sleeping when we left, and he loves Gramma Melissa time, so he won’t miss us.”

Stiles smiles. “How’d you get such a good kid?”

“I married up, dude,” Scott replies. “Kira’s an amazing mom. I just try not to mess it up too much.”

No one had been surprised when Scott and Kira had announced their engagement a few months after Kira had returned to Beacon Hills. But everyone was surprised that they were married just a month later and pregnant a hot second after that. But even Stiles had to admit that even though it was fast, it made complete sense. No more wasting time. They had waited long enough.

Stiles nods in the direction of the delivery rooms. “How’s it going in there? Is Lydia okay?”

“You know she’s doing amazing. Everything is going perfectly. It won’t be long now.” 

“Do you need to...y’know, go back?”

Scott nods. “I will. I just wanna make sure you’re gonna be okay out here.”

Stiles nods a bit too much, his nervousness controlling his actions. His hands twist together and his eyes shift back and forth. Scott senses all of this, and his hands go to Stiles’ shoulders, squeezing them gently, calming him.

“You’re going to be a  _ dad _ , Stiles.” Scott’s words bounce around in Stiles’ brain. He’s said it to himself a million times, but it’s always different hearing it from Scott. It makes it a concrete thing. He feels his eyes widen in slight alarm. Scott notices, and his hands squeeze his shoulders again, assuring him. “You’re going to be a great one.”

Stiles huffs in embarrassment. “I could barely keep my pet turtle alive.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “You were 8. This is a little bit different.”

Stiles’ hands fly out to the side. “This is  _ bigger!  _ This is a human kid! I’m so afraid I’m going to mess this up. You’re a much better dad than me.  _ You _ should take the kid.”

Scott laughs out loud. “You can’t say that. You’ve never been a dad. You end up figuring it out as you go. You and Lydia are a great team—”

“—Yeah, at trivia night at the bar. This is a  _ kid _ .”

“Being a great team works in trivia night  _ and _ in baby-raising. Plus, do you really think Lydia would let you be a terrible father?”

“Ha. No. She’d take my face off with her voice.”

“Exactly.” Scott grinned, and focused his eyes directly into Stiles’, his hands resting on his shoulders, centering him. “You’re going to be incredible. You had amazing parents, you have an incredible wife, you have the support of the pack. You’re just scared, and that’s okay.”

Stiles lets Scott’s words wash over him.  _ He’s right _ . “You really think I’ll be okay?”

“Of  _ course _ ,” Scott nods. “You’ll be amazing.” Scott looks at Stiles with an appraising eye. “Are you sure you don’t want to go in there? It’s  _ your _ kid.”

This is a discussion that they’ve been having for almost 9 months, since they found out about the pregnancy. But Stiles has been adamant. Definitely not.

“I’ll come and stand outside the door. She’ll know I’m there. I just...I don’t want my kid’s first look at me to be of me passed out on the floor.”

“Pretty sure the kid won’t remember.”

“But I will! And so will all of you, and you’ll never let me live it down. Plus, it’s weird.”

“How is it weird?” Scott asks, confused.

“There’s so many...parts hanging out.”

“It’s not like you haven’t seen those par—”

“ _ —No _ , Scott, I  _ haven’t _ . Not like this. No, I’ll just wait outside the door. Let me know when it’s safe to enter.”

Scott throws his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, leading him down the hallway.

“I won’t let you miss anything.”

They arrive at the room, and Scott squeezes Stiles’ shoulder one more time before he pushes open the door, heading inside. Stiles can hear an agonizing scream trail out from inside when the door is pushed open. It causes his heart to pound, and his hands to sweat, and he kinda feels like he wants to throw up. He pushes his back against the wall outside the room, his lower back resting on the chair rail that lines the hallway. The hall is bright and cheery, friendly cartoon art framed along the pastel walls. Thankfully it bears no resemblance to the hallways and rooms that haunt his nightmares, or Scott wouldn’t even have gotten him down this far.

He hears the yelling as it filters through the bottom of the door, screams intermixed with words of encouragement and commands from the nurses in the room. They seem to be all mixed together, and Stiles doesn’t know how much time has passed, but there can’t be much more of this left. He hopes not. The screams are ripping out his heart. He doesn’t think he can take much more of it before he’ll have to retreat to the waiting room again, his tail between his legs.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?” He opens his eyes to see Dr. Alexander standing in front of him, an expectant look on his face.

“Are you coming in?”

Stiles fumbles for words. “I...uh...I—”

“—Look,” Dr. Alexander fixed his gaze on Stiles. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. But—this is something you have waited for for a long time. Do you really want to miss out on it because of fear?”

Stiles has no rebuttal for that. Because of course the answer is no. He wants to be there.

Dr. Alexander gives him a small smile, then turns and pushes the door open with his back. As he does, Lydia appears in the doorway. She’s in a hospital gown, and she grabs his hand, pulling on him gently. He can feel the energy flowing through her, and it’s contagious. He smiles weakly when he sees her wide, excited eyes.

“Stiles. It’s time. Please. I want you to cut the cord.”

Stiles exhales, nodding with resolve and allowing himself to be pulled inside. “Okay. Just...don’t make fun of me if I pass out, okay?”

Lydia steels a look at him. “You will  _ not _ pass out. I won’t let you.”

The room is a full, steady stream of noise. Soothing music is playing in the background, but it’s nearly drowned out by the beeping from monitors, chatter from nurses, orders from the doctor, and...of course all the grunting and screaming. Stiles tries to focus on the background noises instead of the screams as Lydia pulls him inside.

“Okay, I’ve got him in here!” Lydia announces. “Kira, come on. Let’s do this.”

Stiles follows Lydia, eyes wide, as she stands next to Kira’s bed, Scott on the far side stroking back the hair that is stuck to Kira’s sweaty forehead. She’s propped up in the bed, and  _ oh god, her legs are strapped up and is that blood? Oh don’t look! _ Stiles moves to Lydia’s left side to be as far away from the Danger Zone as he possibly can. Kira is grunting and bearing down and Scott is whispering words of encouragement and Lydia is holding Kira’s hand and cheering her on.

“You’re doing so good, you’re doing amazing, just a little bit more,” Stiles hears Scott saying.

“The head is out!” Dr. Alexander announces. Stiles is torn with wanting to see everything, and wanting to hide his face behind his hands and never see anything ever again. Instead, he focuses on the top of Kira’s head, and braces himself. How did he ever get talked into coming in here? He was fine out in the waiting room!

Lydia cheers, “Yes! Kira! Okay, one more big push. You’ve got this.”

Kira is panting and shaking her head. “I can’t! Oh, god, it hurts so much. I can’t do it. I can’t!”

Stiles’ eyes are wide as he sees the panic rising in Kira’s face.  _ This, he knows _ . He clears his throat. “Kira.” Her eyes fly to his face, tears in her eyes, eyebrows scrunched in fear. “Just breathe. Breathe with me.”

He takes deep breaths, and hears her matching her breathing with his. Her brow settles, and he keeps looking in her eyes and giving her encouragement. “That’s right. Deep breaths. You can do it.” He feels Scott and Lydia’s eyes on him, but he focuses on Kira.

“Okay, Kira. Last big push.” Dr. Alexander says.

Kira’s eyes go wide, but Stiles nods at her. She closes her eyes and bears down, and a few moments later, her yell turns into an exclamation of relief.

There’s quiet for a moment or two, and then the most beautiful piercing scream breaks the silence and everyone smiles.

“Congratulations, you have a baby girl!”

Stiles’ eyes fly to Lydia, who turns to look back at him with a huge smile on her face, tears streaming down her face. “A daughter?” she whispers.

“Dad?” Dr. Alexander asks. “Do you want to cut the cord?”

It takes him a moment to register that the doctor’s talking about  _ him _ . The Dad. 

He looks over at Scott, whose eyes are shiny. He is holding Kira close, but he nods with a smile in his direction.

Lydia’s gentle pull on his arm propels him forward. He walks around, being careful not to look at what he doesn’t want to see—he’s made it this far, he doesn’t want to pass out now. 

A nurse hands Stiles some scissors, and he cuts through the cord—it’s tougher than he thought it’d be. 

When it’s done, he looks back at Lydia, whose eyes are alight with tears, and his heart is filled with pride as he looks at her.

Dr. Alexander’s voice breaks through their look. “Mom, are you ready?” 

Lydia’s eyes widen at the word. He sees her mouthing it.  _ Mom. _ He nods at her, smiling through his tears. Her eyes light up with excitement and anticipation. 

A nurse holding a noisy, messy bundle moves to her. Lydia holds out her hands and takes the crying baby from the nurse, pulling it towards her and against her chest. Her head drops down and kisses the knitted cap covering her daughter’s head, and Stiles feels the tight squeeze in his heart as it swells with a million emotions at once. Pride, relief, happiness, contentment. The baby quiets when Lydia adjusts her arms a little bit, and the look of joy that fills her face is one he’ll never forget.

Lydia turns to Kira, and as Lydia opens her mouth to speak, a small whimper escapes instead. Stiles slides up behind her, putting an arm around her for support and kissing the top of her head. She takes a deep breath, holding the baby close, and whispers to Kira, “Thank you for carrying our daughter.”

Kira has tears running from her eyes, Scott is holding her close and running his hand up and down her arm in a comforting motion. She whispers back, “You’re welcome.”

Ever since Kira had approached Stiles and Lydia about being a surrogate, Stiles had wondered how this moment would play out. The moment when the baby would become theirs. Would it be weird, taking the baby away from Kira and Scott? But considering the circumstances, it was as normal as it could possibly be. Kira had been the perfect surrogate for Lydia—Lydia’s body would reject fertilized embryos, but Kira’s wouldn’t. Lydia’s eggs were still viable, and on a whim before his surgery, Stiles had banked his sperm, just in case a solution presented itself. A successful artificial insemination later, and Kira was pregnant. She had never once referred to the baby as hers—it was Stiles and Lydia’s baby. Lydia went to all of the appointments with Kira, and the pack had thrown them a huge baby shower a few months before. Kira had told them over and over how lucky she was to get to do this for her pack family, and it proved to be true.

Stiles stood looking between the two women—the one he loved and the one who loved them enough to do this for them—and thankfulness flows through him. He moves from behind Lydia to give Kira a kiss on the forehead. He whispers his own thanks, then clasps onto Scott’s shoulder, squeezing it, appreciation present in both of their gazes.

“Thank you  _ both _ ,” he manages to choke out behind his emotion.

“You’re welcome. I love you, brother,” Scott says softly. There’s a moment where they just stand together, holding each other’s shoulders over the bed and saying with their eyes what they can’t find words to convey. 

Scott takes a deep breath finally and breaks the silence. “So, what’s her name?”

“ Émilie,”  Lydia answers, unable to take her eyes off of their daughter. “ Émilie Claudia Stilinski.”

Stiles smiles again at Scott and Kira, who hold each other close, Scott leaning in to kiss her gently, pride filling his gaze. Stiles wonders if they’ll ever realize fully what this means to he and Lydia. They never thought they would have this moment: becoming parents. And now that they have, it almost feels like a dream. One of the most incredible dreams he could imagine, and one he hopes he never wakes up from. He turns back to Lydia, and his breath hitches at the sight of his wife holding their sweet baby Emmy.

At that moment, there’s a thrumming deep inside Stiles’ chest. His eyes widen as he feels it. Lydia’s eyes widen; she must be able to feel it, too. The tether between them is loosening. Stiles is reminded of when this happened before, when it was terrifying to lose the tight bond between them. But this time, he doesn't feel fear. It’s different. The bond isn’t disappearing. It’s strengthening and stretching between the two of them, and moving to wrap itself around their daughter. There’s a moment where the bond is floating between them, and then Stiles and Lydia gasp simultaneously when the bond attaches to Emmy, a current of unseen electricity flowing through the bond and hard-wiring itself around the three of them. They hear a small vocalization from Emmy; she felt it, too.

One of Stiles’ hands moves to Lydia’s shoulder, squeezing gently, the other cradling the baby’s tiny head. He feels Lydia shuddering with emotion, and he drops his mouth to her forehead and lays a kiss on it. 

“Did you feel that?” he asks.

She nods wordlessly with awestruck eyes, and looks down at Emmy. Stiles leans down to his daughter and pulls the blankets back, revealing her face.

If he could be objective, he would comment on the bloody blankets, the white foamy slime all over her hands and face, the coned top of her head, the fact that she’s a ruddy shade of red from her rough initiation into the world. But he finds that he has a complete inability to be objective about his daughter. She’s the most perfect thing he has ever seen in his entire life—and this coming from someone who married the incomparable Lydia Martin.

“Oh my god,” he whispers in awe. His daughter looks up at him with wide, dark gray eyes. Her skin is light and smooth, even with her ruddy red cheeks. Her lips are full and pouty, her lashes skimming over round cheeks. He looks up at Lydia. “She looks like you, thank fuck.”

“Hey, you watch your mouth, Stilinski,” she whispers back at him. “I won’t have you corrupting our daughter before she’s even an hour old.”

Stiles grins at her, “I’ll make a swear jar. We’ll have enough money for her MIT education in it by the time she’s 12.”

“You owe it a dollar already.”

A nurse comes over to ask Lydia to help take the baby’s measurements, and Stiles takes the opportunity to pull his phone out of his pocket and snap a few pictures—Emmy screaming on the scale, sucking on her hand, being held by Lydia, their first family selfie. He texts the pictures along with “ _ Émilie (Emmy) Claudia Stilinski came out to say hi! _ ” to Melissa (“Oh, honey! Congratulations! Your dad would be so proud.”), Malia (“Congrats. Say goodbye to sleep.”), Liam (“Her mouth is open already. She must be your kid.”), and Mason (“Thank goodness she looks like her mom.”).

After Emmy is all measured, they move to a private room and she gets her first bath, which Stiles just thinks is the coolest thing he’s ever seen. He gets to see all of her perfect parts—the long fingers (“Those are from you,” Lydia says.), the round belly, the spindly little legs (“Those are yours, too,” Lydia teases.) and the big scream when the nurse washes her hair (“The scream is definitely yours,” he retorts.). He marvels at how she latches onto his finger—he knows it’s just a reflex, but he gets an image of her holding his hand while learning to walk, and walking to school, and dancing with him at her wedding, and he gets a little misty-eyed, he can’t help it. 

He takes a moment to FaceTime Derek and Braeden. Well, they FaceTime Braeden—Derek still just has the simplest phone on the market. He’s such an old man. 

When Braeden answers, she takes a moment to look closely at Stiles, then points to the scars on her face. “Ooh, buddy! I haven’t seen you for a while. You look like me now!” Stiles absentmindedly traces the long claw scars along his neck and up to his ear. More war wounds. But Lydia loved to remind him—they were evidence that he had survived. Braeden smirked at him. “You look badass now.” Stiles laughed. His name and  _ badass _ weren’t usually in the same sentence.

“Who is it?” They hear Derek’s voice in the background.

“It’s Stiles and Lydia.” Derek’s face appears in the frame.

“And we’d like to introduce you to Emmy,” Stiles says with a smile, moving the frame over to center it on Emmy’s sleeping face..

The twins and Laurel must have been close by, because they hear the congratulations being issued from their mom and dad, and they barrel into the room. Stiles chuckles at Derek’s exasperated face as they essentially push him out of the frame altogether with squeals of “ _ Baby!” _ and “ _ Oh, she’s so cute!” _  Stiles can’t help the laugh that erupts out of him when he sees Derek manage to wrangle the phone away from them after a few minutes, but only by dropping his fangs and roaring at them. The effect is wasted when they giggle off-screen and Stiles can hear them yelling, “Talk to you later, Uncle Stiles!” Lydia smiles at Derek and Braeden as she holds Emmy up for the camera. After a few details about the birth, they settle in to the conversation.

“How’s Kira doing after all this?” Derek asks. 

“Scott’s with her now, but she says she’s fine,” Stiles comments.

“Do you think she really is?” Braeden asks, concerned.

Stiles and Lydia look at each other for a moment, then Lydia adds, “I really think she is. Keiho will be there when they get home, and he’s too young to understand what’s happened. And she loves being pregnant, so I think once her body is ready again, they’ll try for a brother or sister for him.”

“Scott wants a full pack of his own,” Stiles adds.

“Well, he’s a good pack leader, and a good dad, too,” Derek smiles. “I’m happy for you both. If anyone deserves to be happy after everything, it’s you two.”

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says appreciatively.

Braeden’s head pops into the frame again. “Come and see us when you get back in town. We want to see Emmy in person!”

Lydia smiles. “We will!”

“Bye, Stiles,” Derek says warmly.

“Bye, Derek. We’ll see you guys soon,” Stiles says.

“Okay, how do I turn this thing off?” Derek asks, and Stiles laughs. He saves Derek the trouble and pushes the  _ End Call _ button.

At that moment, a nurse rolls in a bassinet for Emmy. She shows Stiles where the diapers and extra blankets are stored in the bottom, and suggests they get some sleep while the baby is sleeping, nodding at the bassinet. But Stiles and Lydia can’t seem to bring themselves to put her down in it. Instead, they climb into the hospital bed and sit back against Stiles’ pillow, his arm wrapping around Lydia’s shoulders, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip, legs intertwined, and they just...marvel at her. They give her a bottle with the tiniest amount of formula he’s ever seen, Stiles taking pictures the whole time, and when she falls asleep sucking on it, Lydia just holds her while she sleeps, Stiles trailing his fingers over her cheeks and forehead, Lydia’s own fingers holding her tiny feet in her palms.

“Can you believe we made this?” Stiles marvels.

Lydia leans her head onto his shoulder, exhaling a deep sigh of contentment. “It’s pretty unbelievable.”

“We owe Kira and Scott big time. Wonder what kind of gift is appropriate for something like this? I feel like a fruit basket just doesn’t seem adequate.”

“You mean, a card that reads, ‘Thanks for carrying our kid for 9 months, here’s a pineapple,’ isn’t quite the statement you’re looking for?” Lydia teases.

Stiles smirks at her in return, “Yeah, I’m just not sure that sends the full weight of my appreciation. Maybe a watermelon?” Lydia chuckles, and he shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will,” Lydia agrees, smirking back at him. 

Emmy yawns a big yawn in her sleep, and Stiles can’t help but marvel at it. He’s sitting in the presence of a modern-day miracle, and his poor, overwhelmed brain just can’t wrap itself around the amazingness of it. He wants to run up and down the halls of the hospital, screaming with joy and announcing her arrival to everyone—but Lydia would probably brain him upside the head for doing it and waking up all the newborns on the floor. But the joy that is swelling his heart three more sizes just can’t seem to be contained. He’s going to buy cigars for the entirety of Beacon County at this rate.

“Do you think everyone feels this way about their kids?” he asks.

“It’s a pretty safe bet,” Lydia agrees.

Stiles leans down to a sleeping Emmy and whispers, “Wanna know a secret, little one? There’s not a single baby in this entire world that is as loved as you are.”

He smiles at the thought, and looks over to see Lydia looking at him with a matching smile on her face, her eyes full of wonder. “You know, you look incredibly sexy as a dad.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yep,” she adds, her lips pursing with the final  _ p _ sound. She leans next to his ear and whispers, “You know the best part about not birthing this baby?”

“What?” Stiles asks, curiously.

“We don’t have to wait six weeks to get it on.”

Stiles feigns shock, moving his hands to cover Emmy’s tiny ears. “You can’t proposition me in front of my newborn daughter!”

Lydia chuckles and plants a kiss on his cheek. “I don’t think we need to worry. From everything Kira tells me, Emmy’s not going to let us sleep at all for at least the next year.”

“Well, I’m already used to that.”

“Good! Then you can take the overnight shifts.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “I walked into that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you kinda did.”

They relax onto the pillow, Lydia’s head on his shoulder, a sleeping Emmy in their arms. Stiles feels a contentment he hasn’t felt in a while settle over him. It feels like a blanket, and he sighs with the comfort it brings to his soul. The thread that connects their souls seems to be humming its own version of contentment between the three of them, leaving them all relaxed. At that moment, an eerie voice of warmth and warning from the not-so-distant past is recalled into his memory. He looks down at Lydia.

“This is it, you know,” he says to her. She looks up at him questioningly. He nods at Emmy. “This is what I was sent back for.”

“How so?” Lydia asks him.

“Well, the voice said, ‘ I believe you have more to give, In this life,  _ and in the life to come _ .’ I don’t think it was talking about the rest of  _ my _ life. I think it was talking about Emmy. It knew we were going to have  _ her _ .”

There’s a silence following this statement as they both attempt to grasp the gravity of it. There’s no way that he’ll ever be able to understand fully everything that happened after his surgery. He and Lydia and the pack have gone over all of the details and updated the Bestiary as much as possible. But there’s a mystery to the things that happen after this life that they just can’t explain.

This is one of those things. How did the voice know that they’d be in this place, even after all of the heartache and pain? It’s something they’ll never understand. And Stiles thinks, they’re  _ not meant _ to understand. They’re just meant to  _ be _ : day in and day out, living each moment together, making each other laugh, teaching each other how to love and do better and be better.

It’s not to say there won’t be any danger ever again. It’s the nature of their life encased in the supernatural world; trouble will inevitably find them. Derek had been smoothing relations with the Delfino pack (residual mess from Peter—thankfully, it appeared to be the  _ last _ mess) when a large djinn colony tried to take up residence outside of San Francisco. Malia had disappeared for a few hours before they had settled that dispute and gotten her back. And in Beacon Hills, even with the reputation of the McCall Pack, there would be someone that came along every once in awhile. Drawn by the power of the Nemeton—or by their own stupid brain, thinking they could defeat Scott and take over everything—they would come looking for a fight. Kira was six months pregnant with Keiho the last time a group of Vetala—corpse-embodying shapeshifters—entered the territory (which, combined with Kira’s constant nausea, was  _ not _ a pretty sight).

He turns his head to where Lydia’s head is resting on his shoulder. He lays a kiss on top of her head and sighs softly into her hair. He senses Lydia has fallen asleep—she has relaxed into his shoulder and is breathing deeply. He makes sure Emmy is safely cradled on their laps and rests his cheek on the top of her head.

As he does so, he reflects on that voice. On its charge to not waste  _ this _ . He hopes that he won’t. The way that he feels when he looks at Lydia and the new, more intense way he feels when he looks at Emmy make him realize that he won’t be able to waste it. He wants to do everything in the world for them, and now he has the opportunity to do so.

Stiles finds himself drifting off to sleep, the warmth of his wife on his side and his daughter in his lap slowly lulling him into a peaceful doze. But before he drifts off completely, he whispers once again to the unfaced voice.

“Thank you.”

  
  


**********************

  
  


The white emptiness where the voice exists is its home. A place between here and the next, a place of judgement and recompense. It watches all things pass without emotion, delivering a verdict that most souls expect before it has been delivered. Thousands of souls pass through a day, on the way to their final permanent soul home. Most are content with moving on or moving back, their lives a testament to the choices they have made. A few fight and claw against their judgement, ranting about fairness or pleading for mercy when their lives have done little to nothing to earn it. The voice moves them on to a place of peace or to a place of erasure, and it feels it all, but interferes little.

Those souls that are moved back are of special interest to the voice. There are few that afford this honor. Most are returned in a lower form, their attempt at redemption becoming a struggle of sacrifice and pain. But for a select few, the moving back is seen as “a miracle”: a soul’s return to a body where there was no life. In these rare cases, the voice keeps a record of their goings and their attempts at redemption and recompense.

Stiles Stilinski is one of these souls. The voice senses a heightening of emotion from Stiles’ soul, and focuses down just in time to hear a whispered “thank you” emerge into the voice’s space.

The voice is called to be an impassive observer. It delivers its verdicts with an emotionless timbre that creates fear and trembling in its presence. But at the sight of Stiles and his soul’s mate and soul’s successor curled up tightly together at last, The voice falls into the weakness of emotion for a brief moment to embrace a smile of warmth. 

The voice gathers itself, extending its sound through time and space to connect to the soul of Stiles Stilinski. The voice senses the human’s soul bound up by the red strings, connecting him to his soul’s mate and his soul’s successor, the three cords wound tightly so as never to be severed.

The voice senses the calm of their souls, and whispers into them.

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I am crying as I post this. I cannot believe that this journey has come to an end!
> 
> A couple of story notes:  
> Emmy is named after Émilie du Châtelet, a French physicist, mathematician and philosopher, who died in childbirth in the 1700s.   
> Lydia's reason for being infertile is completely, 100% non-supernatural, and a real thing. Look it up.
> 
> There are SO many thank yous, that I feel like the Academy Awards orchestra is going to start playing me off before I finish with them, but they are necessary, because stuff like this doesn't just happen without a support system.
> 
> To my best friend Sara, who saw this story from the very first inkling of thought, and cheered me on and talked through story details and listened to me rant and cry about it, thank you. Your belief in me (often when I had none for myself) means more to me than you'll ever know.
> 
> To Meg, who encouraged me through the first few chapters of this story, and then continued supporting me as a writer and as a friend. Thank you for believing in me. I admire you and look up to you SO much, and your support means every. single. thing. to me.
> 
> To Sabrina, thank you for listening to me rant and cry about this story, and ranting and crying at me in return when I delivered things to you. You're the best kind of audience a writer could hope for. I'm so thankful for you.
> 
> To Jane, Cathy, Sydney, Lori, Cassie, and Sarah, words cannot express. Truly. You all mean more to me than I can express. This story only exists because of your constant love and encouragement. I am so grateful to have y'all as my tribe.
> 
> To Dylan O'Brien and Holland Roden and Tyler Posey and Arden Cho and Tyler Hoechlin, who will never ever see this story (unless someone wants to option it for the future Teen Wolf movie, in which case, call me), but whom I love with the fire of a thousand suns. Thanks for bringing life into these characters so that I can bring them to life on my page. I adore you all so much, and I apologize for all of the objectification.
> 
> And to you, my faithful readers, who have encouraged me through this entire journey. THANK YOU for all your love, kudos, encouragements, tweets, tumblr notes, direct messages, and WhatsApp messages. I literally have screensaved everything you've ever said about this story into a file, and when I'm having a truly shitty day, I'll just go back and read things and remind myself that you all exist.
> 
> As always, find me on Twitter or Tumblr - @im2old4thisotp


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